


Loyal In Adversity

by JayEz



Series: Our Final Problem [1]
Category: James Bond (Movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 00Q are faster though, BAMF James Bond, BAMF John Watson, Canon-Typical Violence, John and Mary are not happy, Mary's Past, Multi, Mycroft needs a hug, Oblivious, Post-Canon, Post-His Last Vow, Post-Skyfall, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Q Has a Cat, Q is NOT a Holmes, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Slow Build, and now there's smut!, as in "glacial" regarding Johnlock, heavily influenced by meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-03-30 13:44:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 45,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3939010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayEz/pseuds/JayEz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Did you miss me?” When every screen across the country flickers, Q’s blood runs cold. Meanwhile, Sherlock Holmes returns to English soil not even twenty minutes after setting foot on a plane. The detective and his blogger team up with a young Quartermaster and a Double-oh in a game that will test loyalties and pressure points to their limit. </p><p>Or: That Bondlock Season 4 AU in which, surprisingly, Q is not a Holmes but becomes tangled up in the brothers’ mess anyway.</p><p>A scene from this fic <strong>is being turned into <a href="http://www.jays-lair.com/films/the-hacker-2016/">a short film</a>!</strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Did you miss me?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Loudest_Subtext_in_Television](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loudest_Subtext_in_Television/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What started as me merging my favourite 00Q tropes in one fic soon got a life of its own and morphed into a major, multi-chaptered, multi-part Bondlock ‘verse. Part I is finished as of this moment, so there will be no surprise waits, I promise! 
> 
> I would like to **dedicate this to the wonderful Nat, aka[Loudest-Subtext-In-Television](http://loudest-subtext-in-television.tumblr.com/)** , whose writings introduced me to TJLC and have inspired me greatly. She’s also an amazing person and, as I discovered, quite taken with Bondlock.  
> I hope this will bring you as much joy as your presence in fandom brings me! 
> 
> **Could theoretically be read without knowledge of Skyfall or James Bond.** For those wishing for a brief introduction, please see [this post](http://bondlocked.tumblr.com/post/118937206986/james-bond-an-introduction) (featuring pretty pictures of Daniel Craig and Ben Whishaw, so there’s that).
> 
>  **Timeline Info:** Post Season 3 of Sherlock, thus two years after the events of Skyfall. I chose New Year’s Eve as the day Sherlock is sent off because I like the symbolic significance. 
> 
> Heavily influenced by LSiT’s M-theory and metas by wellthengameover, thefinalproblem and many more. You don’t need to have read anything prior to this fic, it will all fall into place as the characters catch up with what’s really going on. I will list relevant metas in the end notes of the corresponding chapters. [EDIT: some links might not work anymore since LSiT's posts aren't online anymore. Sorry in advance for any frustration that causes!]
> 
> Title inspired by John’s [mug](http://www.sherlockology.com/props/johns-coffee-mug) which bears the motto of the Royal Army Medical Corps, In Arduis Fidelis. 
> 
> My eternal thanks and love to [merlenhiver](http://archiveofourown.org/users/merlenhiver) and [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya) for beta-services and feedback! 
> 
> /author (finally) out

**_31st December 2014_ **

Q Branch is eerily quiet despite the late hour. The silence will remain for a little longer until Danielle comes in to guide 003 through his mission in Kabul. Until then the only sounds in the room are coming from Q, yet he is currently waiting for 006 to call in and tell him he made it out of his hellhole alive. 

Two years ago situations like this were enough to make Q’s pulse spike and his palms sweaty. Now, after twenty-eight months with his merry band of agents, his breath barely even hitches. 

The com cracks. “Made it. Everything’s still attached,” comes 006’s voice, strained as if he is hurt. And he probably is, though unless he is losing copious amounts of blood or missing a limb, Q has learned not to worry. 

“Wonderful, yet not wonderful enough to warrant ignoring communication protocols, 006.”

“You can punish me all you want when I’m back on English soil, Q,” Alec tells him, voice dropping low despite the obvious pain he is in. 

Q resists the urge to roll his eyes. Every Double-oh’s default setting appears to be “flirt with everything that moves”. 

“Shall I make your next gun grow poisonous spikes for your next mission? Wouldn’t have to be poisonous, just a mild paralytic will do, I think.”

“Sometimes you scare me, Q. 006 signing off.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Your flight details have been uploaded to your phone and I have booked you into a hotel until then. Do you need medical assistance?”

“Nothing dental floss won’t solve.”

“Wonderful,” Q sighs. “Q signing off.”

He switches off the coms and closes the tabs on both his laptop and the giant screens that are mounted on the wall in front of him. The only thing he leaves open are the surveillance feeds tracking 006’s progress through the city to make sure he does, in fact, reach the intended hotel and doesn’t pass out on the way like the stubborn idiot that he is. And 006 still isn’t the most stubborn idiot Q is working with; in fact, he has nothing on – 

“All alone, working on New Year’s Eve? Won’t your cat miss you?”

Think of the devil, and he doth appear. 

“007, I take it your flight was pleasant?”

“Very.”

He looks good. Of course, James Bond always looks good. His suits barely wrinkle, even after hours and hours on a plane, his eyes are alert and cornflower blue as always, a slight stubble is dusting his jaw and Q really needs to stop appreciating the view so much when the agent is around. 

“M is expecting you in his office tomorrow afternoon for a full debrief.”

“You telling me I get to sleep in tomorrow?”

“Consider it a late company Christmas present, 007.” 

The smile he receives is blinding and Q can feel the corners of his mouth curl as well. So maybe he has a little crush on James Bond. Having a crush on 007 is practically a rite of passage at MI6, at least according to Eve. 

“Speaking of which,” Bond says and retrieves both his gun and his radio, as well as the small camera pin still attached to his lapels. 

Q blinks at the gun. “That’s your Walther.”

“Yes.”

“In one piece.”

“Yes.”

“Still functioning.”

“Yes.” Bond definitely sounds smug now, the bastard. 

“I can count on one hand the number of times this has happened in the past two years, Bond. What’s next, a dragon’s egg?”

Bond’s deep chuckle echoes in the empty room. “Sorry, it wouldn’t fit into my hand luggage.”

“Shame, really,” Q gives a fake sigh and curses the warmth that spreads through his chest. 

“I did bring you this, though.”

Q looks down at Bond’s outstretched hand and sees a… Well, something small and rectangular. “What exactly is that?”

“I don’t know. One of my targets seemed pretty eager to keep me away from it, though. Thought you might like to dissemble it. I heard you enjoy such a thing.”

Now Q is genuinely smiling and he can’t do anything against it, or against the giddy feeling coursing through him. “Thank you, 007.”

He takes the… chip? Flash drive?... out of Bond’s open palm and wills his pulse to relax when his fingers inevitably brush Bond’s skin. 

“Happy New Year.” 

Suppressing an even broader smile, Q turns towards his other laptop, the one not currently hooked to the screens and resting on a side table next to the larger desk. While minimising several applications he notices that he still has this morning’s newspaper article open. 

_“Media Tycoon Commits Suicide – Only Found Five Days Later”_ , the headline reads above a picture of Charles Augustus Magnussen that Q chose. 

“What’s that?” Bond asks immediately. Really, one would think international men of mystery and espionage were savvy in terms of politics, yet Bond probably can’t even name four of the current cabinet members. 

“Not quite the tragedy the news make it out to be.”

Q used to read newspapers before he found out you shouldn’t trust a word they are printing unless you forged it yourself. Not that Q does that sort of thing − usually. It is way below his pay grade, yet he can be convinced to help out, as a favour to a friend. 

Q is about to close the laptop when the screen flickers. 

He spins around, eyes darting from one display to the next. They are all flickering, the same pattern on every single one. Q’s blood runs could. 

And that is before the screen changes, revealing two words, a question mark, and the face of a man who is supposed to be dead. 

_“Did you miss me?”_ The disembodied voice resonates through Q Branch.

“How the hell did he get into our system!” Q more bellows than asks, fingers already on the keypad. No matter what he does, he can’t get rid of the image so he tries a longer path and when his mobile rings two minutes later his palms are damp and there is sweat forming between his brows. 

“Tell me this is your idea of a joke, Q,” M barks down the line. 

“No, sir, my humour is slightly less morbid,” Q replies, fingers flying swiftly across the keys. Bond’s snort barely registers. 

“Then tell me you’re fixing this right now.”

“I am, sir. It’s an adaptive algorithm, so this might take a second.”

Of course Jim Moriarty would never allow his code to be broken before he intended it to. Of course the moment Q spots a weakness in the code he knows it has been put there to be found, so that after five minutes of a constant stream of _“Did you miss me?”_ the screens flicker one last time before returning to normal. 

He hears M sigh in relief at the other end of the line. “I’m coming in, Q. Be ready for a full debrief.”

“Yes, sir.”

Q isn’t too steady on his feet and he has to hold onto the table not to fall over. This is all very reminiscent of Silva, and the way Bond’s face is a shade paler than it was minutes before tells him that the agent is thinking the exact same thing. 

If they ever suspected Moriarty behind Silva’s stunt before, they definitely have damning evidence now. Q gets to work, looking for traces of the algorithm, for anything to present to M once he gets here. 

It takes two rings on his private mobile before he hears it. 

“ _You_ stopped it, I presume?” Mycroft’s voice comes through the loudspeaker, collected and calm as always. Not that Q is surprised – it would take more than a criminal mastermind returning from the dead to faze the man.

“Yes. But only when I was supposed to.” 

“Find out as much as you can. I’ll be in touch.”

Neither of them says goodbye, just the monotonous peep of the dial tone signifies the end of the conversation. Q loses himself in lines of code and when he next looks up, there is fresh tea in his mug. 

Q narrows his eyes at it yet can’t dwell on the matter, since M just walked through the door. 

*~*~*

John’s mind is still reeling, even hours after the revelation that Jim Moriarty is actually alive and has apparently chosen this day to make it public. 

“So what, did you fake suicides at each other?” 

Sherlock doesn’t answer. He has been awfully quiet the entire ride to Mycroft’s house – and John can’t even appreciate that he finally finds out Mycroft’s home is just as posh and regal as he always imagined – and is now staring into the lit fireplace while the three of them are waiting for Mycroft to return with more information. 

Mary is resting in an armchair, one hand on her stomach, and just as quiet while John can’t stop pacing. He thought the Moriarty business was over and done with, finished, and how the hell can someone even fake shooting himself in the bloody head?!

He jerks around at the sound of the door opening. Mycroft looks even graver than he did in the car – not just a joke, then. 

“The transmission originated from Magnussen’s network servers. Apparently an inside job if our experts are to be believed and whoever did this employed an incredibly sophisticated virus to spread it to every screen in the country.”

Mycroft’s explanation is met with more silence. 

“So we can’t be sure it’s really him?” John asks, flexing his hands. “I mean everyone who’s skilled at Photoshop could’ve done that. Maybe it’s someone else and they’re just playing with us.” 

“Unlikely,” Sherlock says, finally. 

Before John can ask him to explain, however, Mycroft’s phone beeps with a text and then he is moving towards the television in the corner, switching it on. John isn’t entirely sure he actually wants to see what’s coming next. 

They catch Moriarty – live, talking, grinning at the camera for Christ’s sake - mid-sentence. 

“- back… Are you surprised? Did you miss me? Of course you did,” he answers immediately, all patronising and barking mad, just like John remembers him from the pool. 

“That’s why you should never believe anything your read in the papers – you can never be sure who forged the article.”

Moriarty smirks into the camera and John recalls this morning’s headline about Magnussen’s suicide. Can Moriarty possibly know about that, too?

“Ohhhh,” he coos on screen, “I can see all your vacant little faces, so confused, so afraid… How did I do it? Have you figured it out yet? Have you, Sherlock?”

John flinches away from the telly but neither of the others even moves a muscle. It is moments like this that remind him he is married to a former CIA agent. Or at least that is the theory, since the information on the flash drive Mary handed him was utterly false. John had Mycroft check. 

Shaking his head to chase off the memories, John returns his attention to the screen.

“I’ll give you… one hour. No, nothing will happen if it takes you longer, but we both know it won’t, will it? I just want to see if you’re still… in shape,” Moriarty says with a wink, popping the “p” slightly and it makes John even more uncomfortable than anything leading up to this moment. 

On screen, Moriarty straightens, toothy smile in place. “And coming up next, the weather. Byeeee!” 

The image flickers and suddenly it is back to the usual programme for a moment before Mycroft switches it off. John’s eyes immediately dart to Sherlock whose face is unreadable. John knows better than to say anything – Sherlock is probably already thinking. His eyes travel across the room before they widen and his lips part in a silent “oh”. 

“And?” John asks because he still recognises an epiphany when he sees one. 

Only this time, Sherlock doesn’t look ecstatic. He doesn’t look happy. Just utterly defeated. 

“Staying alive,” Sherlock says. “Our final problem. Moriarty planned it. He knew I would have prepared a way to fake my death – and he did the same.”

“Yeah, but how?”

For the first time since they arrived at the house, Sherlock meets his eyes. “A sniper on the roof, able to shoot with surgical precision. Judging by the blood pattern on the rooftop I’d say the sniper ruptured a bag of artificial blood hidden underneath his coat collar.” 

“Hang on – you’re saying that you didn’t _check his pulse_ back then?” 

Sherlock’s mouth becomes thinner. “I was rather preoccupied.” 

A startled laugh escapes John, then another. He starts pacing again, flexing his hands, unable to keep still. “Great, just great.”

“How are you going to tell him?” Mycroft speaks up and by the time John turns around to look at him, the older Holmes’ face is unreadable once more, if it ever held an expression in the first place. 

“The same way I solved all his puzzles.” Sherlock produces his mobile and starts typing. It takes John a moment to remember he posted his findings on his website all those years ago. The public will surely be catching on to it soon. Should John update his blog? Or should he just ignore it? He glances at Mary, her stomach protruding and illuminated by the glow of the fire. 

John should keep out of this. He has a daughter to look after now. 

A ringing phone startles him out of his thoughts and back to a reality that still includes Moriarty. It is Sherlock’s phone, not Mycroft’s this time, and John’s pulse quickens when he realises that this has to be the criminal on the other end. 

Sherlock accepts the call and instantly switches the loudspeaker on. 

“Good to see you’re still in form, sexy!” 

John shivers. It’s true, then. It’s definitely true. 

“What do you want?” 

“Oh, why so serious, Sherlock? I guess killing a man will do that to you…”

John swallows his gasp. Neither Mycroft nor Mary reacts in any obvious way and Sherlock is just staring down at the phone in his palm. 

“And with your own hands, too. Tsk, tsk. Even _I_ have never done that…”

“You bloody well did!” John snarls, which earns him a chuckle from the other end of the line. 

“Never have I ever shot a man… and I’d be the only one who wouldn’t have to take a shot.”

John narrows his eyes at the phone, then glances at his wife. Mary seems surprised, almost afraid. John can’t blame her. What else does Moriarty know? Does he know about her pregnancy? The thought is enough to make John’s stomach turn. 

“Happy New Year, Sherlock… I’ll be in touch.”

A beep, then silence. 

*~*~*

The fireworks in the distance near the London Eye are thinning, darkness taking over the sky once more. 

Sherlock plays, filling the flat with music while his thoughts are racing inside his head, covering every possible angle, every theory he can think of and when he ends on a low, dramatic note, he can’t ignore what is staring him right in the face. 

He sends a text, calls a cab. Mary is already waiting in the shadow, wrapped in a jacket, looking pale as a ghost. 

Moriarty will have surveillance on her, so Sherlock chose the one blind spot near John and Mary’s flat that exists in the vicinity. 

For a moment they just look at each other, assessing, and in Mary’s case just a tad worried. 

“A sniper who shoots with surgical precision,” he says, aware how cold his eyes must look, how vicious his expression must be. “And less than a year later, an assassin meets John Watson. You never left his service.”

Mary’s mouth twitches. “You won’t tell him.” 

“No.” Not yet, anyway. Not that it matters. All Sherlock can do at the moment is assure Mary that he knows and by extension, that he will never trust her again. 

“So he is the father?”

Mary doesn’t ask how he would dare question it. She knows just as well as he does that there is room for suspicion. She doesn’t flinch either, however. 

“Yes.”

“Good.” After all, Sherlock’s vow pertains to John’s child, not someone else’s. Of course Mary could always be lying, yet she has no reason to. Once the seed of doubt is there, once Sherlock brings the topic up with John, there will be a paternity test. Lying now would help no one. 

Point made, Sherlock spins around on his heels, his coat billowing from the momentum. 

*~*~*

John gets the call while he is in the middle of investigating a strange robbery with Sherlock. He shouldn’t hesitate, he knows he shouldn’t and he will deny that he did until the day he dies, but for one second he considers not answering. 

Sherlock, genius that he is, of course knows immediately what the call is about. 

“Go,” he says. “This one’s simple anyway. Give my best to Mary.”

John nods and hails a cab. 

Elisabeth Willow Watson is born on 13th January 2015 at exactly midnight, weighing 6lb 13.35oz. Nothing happens that day, nor the day after. John takes Mary home, holds his baby girl and laughs his arse off when Sherlock seems completely overwhelmed with a newborn in his arms. 

“She’s so… small. Well, of course, with you as the father, we’ll be lucky if she is ever able to reach the top shelf.” 

“Ha-bloody-ha, very funny, Sherlock.”

“What’s her name, then?” 

“Elisabeth,” Mary supplies. “My second name.”

Sherlock nods, smiling down at the bundle in his arms. 

“Elisabeth Willow,” John blurts, knowing fully well that Sherlock will recognise it as the female form of ‘William’. 

“Oh?”

“Elisabeth Willow, that’s her full name.” 

Their eyes meet over the child but John has to look away again quickly. 

*~*~*

Two weeks fly by. John is the one to get up in the middle of the night to care for Beth since Mary does it the rest of the day. She is not breastfeeding, though he never asks why. John goes to work after a week and when Sherlock texts him about a case, he makes sure to ask Mary whether she would be fine for a few hours. 

She gives him a smile that doesn’t convince him but he got the answer he wanted so he doesn’t call her out on it. 

There is no sign of Moriarty. He doesn’t get in touch. He doesn’t broadcast anything on national television. He doesn’t show up at Baker Street for tea, as far as John knows. 

He just looms in the shadows, a constant threat hanging over their heads, while Sherlock is looking for connections and members of his web and John is changing nappies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Updates will be posted Tuesdays and Fridays. Feedback gives me life :) 
> 
> Relevant Meta:  
> [John read the flash drive](http://wellthengameover.tumblr.com/post/97682234962/john-read-the-flash-drive), by wellthengameover  
> [AGRA](http://wellthengameover.tumblr.com/post/96431995747/agra%20), by wellthengameover


	2. Forget My Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the comments and kudos, they really made my week!  
> It's not Tuesday and I shouldn't post early but I've just finished editing it and I can't wait any longer... So here you go - our two universes finally merge in this chapter! Enjoy :)
> 
> YOI = Youth offenders institute, aka the British form of juvie  
> Simon Hawkes = an alias Sherlock Holmes uses in the original ACD stories

**_4th February 2015_ **

After two years of watching Q’s fingers fly over the keypads of various computers and tablets, James still doesn’t have any idea of what exactly their genius is doing. 

Sure, James can hack his way into several types of networks – he has to in order to fulfil his job – yet he has nothing on Q. The young man isn’t even looking at the code right now; he is altering between watching the surveillance feed and the progress he is making at the computer desk while James is keeping an eye on their target so he doesn’t escape his restraints where they shackle him to a chair. 

At a gasp from the Quartermaster, James turns even before Q’s urgent “007” reaches his ears. 

“What?”

Q nods towards one of the surveillance feeds. Two intruders, both armed, expertly taking cover and advancing through the building. 

“Friends of our guest?” 

“I doubt it. They have successfully avoided all security cameras, a feat certainly beyond the mental capacities of the likes of Mr Milligan.”

“A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed.”

James waits long enough to see Q’s lips curl into a smile before he makes sure their target’s restraints are holding up and exits the room, his Walther at the ready.

*~*~*

John’s pulse is as steady as his hand. To think that only yesterday he was struggling with a crying infant baffles him as he follows Sherlock through the building, wary of cameras and henchmen. 

The man they are looking for takes care of the network, a regular employee on paper while secretly affiliated with Moriarty – at least according to Sherlock’s most recent deductions. 

They are currently two floors below of where they assume the hardware to be located and making slow progress given that they haven’t encountered a single security guard. John doesn’t need Sherlock’s intellect to know something fishy is going on. 

Just then the detective steps around a corner and John’s only warning is a pained grunt before Sherlock stumbles back, clearly shoved or hit in some way. John jumps into the attacker’s field of vision and fires only to have his hand shoved to the side. The bullet buries itself in the wall to his right while a strong hit punches the air right out of John’s lungs. 

He stumbles, breaks his fall less smoothly than he did ten years ago but nevertheless is on his feet shortly after, gun pointing at the assailant who has a strong arm wrapped around Sherlock’s chest and shoulders and a weapon aimed at his temple. 

“Bad move,” John growls and envisions the bullet piercing skin right between the man’s blue eyes. 

At this moment John is expecting several reactions from their attacker. What actually happens is much more absurd. 

“Captain Watson?” 

The man sounds surprised, yet positively so. His grip around Sherlock doesn’t loosen but now the detective seems intrigued, so John takes a closer look. Tall, muscled, expensive suit, the slightest trace of stubble and a smirk that takes John back to sandy deserts and the hail of bullets. 

“James Bond. I’ll be damned.”

“What’s an army doctor doing here?”

“What’s an MI6 operative doing here?” John shoots back. 

“Still a Double-oh, actually.”

“They didn’t demote you? After you blew up an Embassy?”

“What can I say, I’m indispensable.”

“If you two are quite finished you might as well unhand me,” Sherlock grumbles and struggles a bit in Bond’s grip. 

“Not before you tell me what you’re here for.”

John heaves a sigh. “We’re after Orson Milligan.”

The name is clearly familiar to Bond since the agent narrows his eyes. And yes, John is aware that Bond is merely allowing him to see this reaction. He could fool him in a heartbeat if he wanted to. 

“He’s a bit tied up at the moment. You’re too late. He’s in our hands now.”

“We’ll see about that,” Sherlock snaps, and if John had to hazard a guess he would say Sherlock doesn’t like being ignored. 

At least Bond gradually releases his hold on him. Sherlock straightens his coat and shakes a dark curl out of his eyes before striding off. 

“And where do you think you’re going?” 

“To the mainframe where your colleague is currently hacking the system. Feel free to follow or reminisce about your younger years in the field with John when you hadn’t yet developed a drinking problem and severe trust issues.”

“Oi!” John calls after him, both for being rude and for the slight against his age. After all, Bond is only a year or two older than him if he recalls correctly. 

Meanwhile the agent just blinks after Sherlock. 

“He does that. Deduces people. Come on before he says something that’ll make your colleague shoot him.”

“My colleague doesn’t like pulling the trigger,” Bond explains as they are jogging up the staircase. 

They catch up with Sherlock at their original destination. Three quick strides put Bond in front of Sherlock and he makes sure to look up at the security camera across the hallway, probably giving his fellow agent a secret clue as to his entourage. 

It seems to be a day of unexpected occurrences. 

Usually Sherlock would waltz into the room, take in every detail in point five seconds and dazzle everyone with an observation or ten. 

Not now, though. Now he is rooted to the spot as if frozen, gaping at the man typing away on a keyboard while looking at them instead of at the screen. John takes in the lean figure, the mop of dark hair, the thickly rimmed glasses, the cardigan… He doesn’t look older than 30, if he is even 25. 

Well, John is more interested in the man tied to a chair in the corner anyway, his eyes widening as he takes in the new arrivals. 

Oh, this one definitely knows who Sherlock and John are. 

“You’re Sherlock Holmes.” 

As does the man at the computer, apparently. 

“You…” Sherlock says uncharacteristically slowly but the tension is bleeding from his shoulders at last. Whatever it was is over now. John makes a mental note to ask Sherlock about it later. 

“Of course I know who you are. Gathering information is in my job description.”

“Why does that name sound familiar?” Bond throws in, earning him an exasperated eye-roll from the younger man. 

“It wouldn’t hurt you to pick up a newspaper every once in a while, Bond.”

“You sure? Even at my age?”

“Oi,” John feels the need to complain. Again. “Reaching forty doesn’t mean we’re old.”

At least John has been telling himself that since his fortieth birthday back in August. 

“Well,” Sherlock finally speaks up, “for someone who’s still in their twenties you hold a remarkable position. Quartermaster at MI6, colour me… close to impressed.”

The man raises an eyebrow. “How did you know?”

“You’re here with a Double-oh agent, which I would have deduced even if he hadn’t revealed that particular fact himself given his demeanour and the willingness to kill me without a hint of worry about possible repercussions. You’re carrying a gun but when the door opened your hand didn’t flinch towards it, it stayed on the keyboard – technical services, then, and not just any technician. High in the hierarchy, judging by the level of sophistication of the safeguards you are currently hacking your way through. Not just any safeguards, some very similar to those used by a criminal called Silva two years ago and I happen to know that there are only a few people capable of working around them. You’re neither Asian, Russian, American nor Indian, which leaves the Quartermaster of MI6.”

“I’ve been told he does that,” Bond quips when the young man can but gape. 

“Oh, I’ve heard all about your deduction skills, Mr Holmes. Q.” It takes John a second to realise he is introducing himself. “It’s an honour to be at the receiving end of them.”

“Wait ‘till he tells you which jumpers your wife hates but never tells you about,” John grumbles, making Bond chuckle. 

“Flattery won’t stop John and me from taking your prisoner.”

Q raises an eyebrow, fingers already moving again. “You shall have to take it up with our superiors. We have strict orders to bring Milligan in.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes, clearly thinking of a way around this. John cannot imagine what’s going on in that head of his, probably calculating how their chances of survival are if they try to kidnap their target. 

“Why don’t we let you finish here and then follow you back to MI6? I’m sure we can find a solution we’re all happy with.”

“They will never let us into the building and I am _not_ calling Mycroft,” Sherlock announces. “I only need a few minutes with him. Might as well interrogate him here.”

“By all means, be my guest,” Q comments, eyes firmly glued to the screens.

*~*~*

James leans back against the wall where he can watch both Q and this Holmes bloke as he approaches Orson Milligan. While Holmes doesn’t seem to be doing much but look, James’ eyes stray towards John Watson, noting how much he has changed and how much he hasn’t. 

He clearly hasn’t let himself go, even if he isn’t all compact muscle anymore like he was when James met him in Afghanistan. Still tries to stay in shape, then…. Or maybe he does this a lot, substituting one war for another, running around London and tracking down criminals. 

And yet there is a wedding ring on his hand. He mentioned a wife. Good for him, but somehow the image of suburban life doesn’t match the one of Captain John Watson whose hands were steady even as an explosion shook their surroundings. 

“How was Russia, Mr Milligan?” Holmes says out of the blue. “Cold, I presume? Experiencing minus twenty degrees for any period of time will definitely make you appreciate plus ten in London I imagine. Did you smuggle goods back into London or was it information?”

Milligan remains silent, surprising no one. Least of all Holmes, as it would seem. 

“How’s your cat?” 

Bond narrows his eyes. How can Holmes possibly know that? He glances at John who smirks. 

“Who’s looking after it? A friendly neighbour? I doubt Moriarty is the type for pets.”

Milligan’s eye twitches. It’s barely noticeable, but when James catches it he is sure Holmes does as well. 

“How did you meet him? Did you ask him for help? Or did he find you?”

Milligan grits his teeth and says nothing. James watches Holmes’ eyes turn impossibly cold and his shoulders tense as if preparing for another attack, a real one this time, yet he never has the chance to make his move. 

“That is quite enough, Sherlock.” Mycroft Holmes is standing in the open door, rolling an eye at James who raised his weapon the moment the door creaked. “007, please don’t embarrass yourself.”

James stands down and expects Holmes – Sherlock, the younger brother apparently – to do the same, though the man merely glares.

“I need to question him.”

“I have been onto Mr Milligan for quite some time and I would have told you if you had informed me of your plans, little brother. Mr Milligan is a person of interest for MI6 and as such they will be the ones to take him in. Any information you could possibly require will reach you once we have it, Sherlock.”

“Moriarty is my problem, Mycroft –” 

“He is England’s problem, and by extension, _mine_. Don’t you think you have caused enough damage?”

Sherlock Holmes flinches violently, a shadow darkening his features. He falls silent, so whatever Mr Holmes referred to has to be something big. Too bad that James really doesn’t keep up with local news. With all the time he spends on missions across the globe, it would be too much trouble to catch up all the time. For anything he needs to know he has Q. 

Q who pulls out a flash drive and turns towards Mycroft. 

“I have the data. The company’s network remains intact. They will never notice anything has ever been wrong.”

“Good. 007, please escort Mr Milligan out of the building. A retrieval unit is waiting downstairs.” James nods and severs the ropes tying the hostage to the chair, then manhandles him to his feet. “Sherlock, go home. John, go to your wife and daughter. Although I’m afraid they are already asleep at this hour.”

“But –” Sherlock protests, only to have John cut him off with a hand on his shoulder before he pulls him towards the door. 

Curiously John doesn’t seem afraid of Mycroft Holmes, as so many people are in James experience… Maybe they share a sense of mutual respect, if Holmes is capable of such a thing. 

He will have to ask Q later, he decides, but first there is a traitor he needs to hand over to the agency and ensure that Watson and Holmes really leave the building.

*~*~*

They never talk about him. There is no picture of him in the Holmes house. They don’t remember his birthday. They don’t ever mention his name. There is no record, official or unofficial, that would hint at his existence. 

Only his looks remain, an image seared into Sherlock’s mind that cannot be erased while everything related to the person is behind a door. 

The door is still locked, will remain locked forever. Sherlock wouldn’t open it even if he had the key, which is lost in the labyrinth of his mind. 

Yet he still recalls his looks. 

“Sherlock? What was that?” 

John. John in Baker Street with him, but he won’t stay. His daughter wakes during the night; more often than not it is John who has to get up judging by the shadows under his eyes. Mary wouldn’t want to lose sleep, not when she spends all day taking care of the child to begin with. So John needs sleep and yet he is here, watching him instead. 

“Sherlock, are you listening?”

He meets John’s eyes, wondering if after all these years John still doesn’t recognise it when he retreats into his mind palace. Maybe this time it wasn’t obvious since he is merely standing there, staring at the skull. 

“What was that? What made you freeze? Did you know this Q?”

“No. But you knew his companion.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure you’ve figured it all out already and I’m not letting you change the subject.”

John is staring at him now, won’t budge until Sherlock gives him some sort of explanation yet what can Sherlock say when he hasn’t spoken of this for fifteen years? 

“He reminded me of someone. It isn’t him. Doesn’t matter.”

Sherlock picks up his violin. The bow glides smoothly over strings, eliciting a melancholic sequence of notes. He can feel John watching him for a moment, then hears him sigh. 

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

He keeps playing long after the door falls shut.

*~*~*

“Analyse it right away.”

“Of course, sir.” Q nods, quickening his step to keep up with Mycroft’s longer strides. They are back at MI6, Holmes having accompanied them, probably to oversee the interrogation. 

It has to be an important suspect if Mycroft pulled Q in, he muses, given he has so much on his plate that he really doesn’t need anyone to add to it. 

It is Mycroft, though. Q will never refuse, whatever the favour. 

“Make sure no one, and I mean _no one_ , sees the results but me.”

“Sir, M will –” 

“Let me handle him.”

A quick nod and their paths diverge. Q takes to his office instead of the main hall of TSS. He doesn’t need a large screen to decrypt the files, but he does need privacy. 

As he waits for his laptop to boot up his thoughts stray, focussing on Sherlock Holmes. Twelve years ago, Mycroft had a similar reaction. It seems like a lifetime away now…

*~*~*

**_Twelve years ago_ **

This is it. This is the end. 

Maybe it’s karma, only he doesn’t believe in karma. More like inevitability. Cause and effect. After years of hacking the wrong places for the wrong people he finally ends up in a grey interrogation room with nothing more than an uncomfortable chair, a table and a mirror on the side that undoubtedly hides onlookers on the other side. 

It takes ages for the door to open. Letting him stew, nice. Not at all predictable. 

The man who eventually enters it the epitome of everything he despises. Tall, maybe in his thirties, expensive three-piece suit – who even wears three-piece suits except for arrogant pricks with more money than IQ? 

And the bloke has the posh accent to go with his posh outfit, it turns out after the man greets him. 

“Now, if I were you I would refrain from such open hostility,” the man chides. “Mycroft Holmes. I might be your only way out of this precarious situation.”

He snorts ’cos really? How? In shackles? 

Holmes takes a seat across the table and places a file on the table that is surprisingly thick for someone who is only 17. He can’t help feeling a tad smug. 

“Your résumé is impressive. Not only did you gain access to NSA servers but also to five different governments and the databases of MI5 and MI6. And today you tried to erase someone’s existence forever. You would have succeeded. Do you know what your mistake was?”

“Let me guess, hubris?” he scoffs. They should just kick him to the kerb and be done with him. This is useless torture. 

Mycroft Holmes merely smiles, so he heaves a sigh and pushes his thick-rimmed glasses up from where they are sliding down his nose. He has to bend forward a bit since the cuffs around his wrists don’t allow for much room. 

“I was too focussed on the data. I wasn’t hiding my tracks well enough.” He sends the bureaucrat a glare. Like this tosser could code his way out of a Windows firewall. 

“Correct. All in all, though, it was impressive. It would have been quite a feat and you did expose some holes in our systems.”

“Does that mean I won’t be tried as an adult, then? ‘Cos I’d loathe to miss out on all the fun at the YOI.” 

“You might not need to be tried at all.”

He splutters, yet only for a moment before it gives way to indignation. “I have rights!”

“Not if you never existed.”

His jaw snaps shut with a _clack_. Is that bloke serious? He bloody looks it. 

“Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“You and I come to an agreement.”

“What would that entail?” Narrowing his eyes is barely a conscious decision. Whatever Holmes will offer, it can’t be good. 

“We delete you. You receive a clean slate and a new identity in return for your services. You will need an education, get a degree - maybe not something to do with computers since you’re already very versed in that particular field. And afterwards you will come and work for me.”

A shocked laugh escapes him, dissolving into a humourless giggle. 

“Is this funny to you?”

“Absolutely, because things like that _definitely_ happen in real life. What? You want me to believe you’ll just take me under your wing and pay my tuition?”

“You have certain skills that are of interest to us.”

“Who’s that, anyway? What are you? MI6? MI5?”

“I’m a civil servant.”

It makes a strange sort of sense. He has heard of civil servants – they ensure that the government of the day doesn’t ruin the country and everything runs smoothly, yet as far as he knows, few of them wield the power to simply erase someone’s criminal record. 

“You seem dubious.”

“And you seem a bit young to have so much power.” He pauses deliberately before adding, “Sir.”

“You shall find me to be most apt at what I do.”

“You some sort of genius, then?” 

“Well, I can tell you are an orphan and have spent most of your life in children’s homes, which wasn’t pleasant at all. Maybe because children equate your statue with weakness, maybe because they were jealous of your massive intellect. You never had much money, so you turned towards crimes, yet not such that would harm anyone. In the past five years you have never hacked anything but enterprises of questionable morality, sometimes even destroying or partially destroying their networks in the process.”

“All that’s in my file.”

“I didn’t read your file.”

Yeah, sure. He rolls his eyes and wonders if the bloke will disappear if he simply tunes him out. 

“You’ve also become slightly more adventurous in your hacks, maybe because your 18th birthday is approaching and you will have to leave the orphanage. Maybe because you have grown bored of safe missions and since you don’t consider your future valuable or maybe even view it as non-existent, nothing stopped you from taking incredible risks. On a different note I’d advise you to quit smoking and to use a separate laptop for the homosexual pornography you consume.”

 _Now_ he is listening. “You can’t possibly know about my, my – you’re making this up!”

“I don’t. I saw. You were escorted in by two male guards and despite the fear you felt your pupils dilated when one of them tied you to this table and you angled your body towards him, yet I didn’t pick up on a reaction like that to the female officer who took your fingerprints, nor to the female agent who exchanged your cuffs when you were transferred to this building.”

“And how the hell did you know I watch porn?”

“You’re 17, of course you do.”

Silence stretches between them. He is trying to find the problem, the reason he shouldn’t take the deal yet he comes up with nothing, so he eventually breaks the quiet.

“What’s the catch?” 

“Pardon?”

“The catch. It can’t be that perfect.”

“Well, you will be expected to work hard and realise your full potential. You won’t be able to choose your career but will have to follow my orders. Some might consider these limitations unacceptable.”

Holmes gradually rises from his chair, buttoning up his jacket as he does. “It’s time to choose, young man. Spend the rest of your life in prison or start completely anew.” 

He swallows around the lump suddenly constricting his throat. This really is it then. Life as he knows it is over, and he can choose which direction he goes next. 

“One last question,” he blurts out. “Why me? Why are you doing this? Honestly, though.”

Mycroft Holmes swallows and smiles a toothless smile. “You could say you remind me of someone.”

Personal reasons, then. Sentiment maybe. He processes the information quickly, yet without a computer at his disposal he can’t really make much of it at this moment. 

“Alright, then.” He nods, a small gesture compared to the consequences it will bring. 

“I shall make the necessary arrangements,” Holmes announces, unlocks his cuffs and exits the room, leaving the file behind. 

Unable to help his curiosity, he flicks the cover open, expecting to see information on him, the death of his parents, his criminal record… but there is nothing but rows and rows of nonsensical words and letters, made to look like documents yet ultimately containing nothing of value. 

The door opens once more and Mycroft Holmes smiles at him. 

“I told you I didn’t read your file.”

As the door shuts he bursts into laughter and leans back in the chair, unable to deny he has been thoroughly impressed.

*~*~*

The years that follow are hard and educational. 

He passes his A Levels without even studying and is accepted into Cambridge’s engineering programme. He feels out of place most of the time, like Oliver Twist in someone else’s home. He forgets his first name, accepts his new identity. He forms loose friendships, indulges himself sometimes yet mostly he simply studies and constantly tries to advance his skills. He learns to fire weapons because he enjoys improving them. He builds surveillance equipment while still at uni for Mycroft to use. 

After he graduates he starts at the Civil Service and spends the first month giving their security system a complete overhaul, a stunt that earns him mostly respect and some jealousy. He is responsible for the gathering of information and maintaining their network, learns five different languages in his first six months on the job and gets addicted to Earl Grey. 

He is under Mycroft’s direct command and does what he is told. He learns that bringing him in was the first time Mycroft made a hiring decision like that. He doesn’t concern himself with politics although he needs to understand them, but forming opinions on certain parties is not in his job description. 

He rents his own flat, modest but his. He learns to stay away from gorgeous men who know what DHCPv6 stands for since they only want him for his skills. He learns how to escape different types of restraints and basic hand-to-hand combat after a group of terrorists kidnaps him. He also forgets his new name and takes on a new one after that.

When he sees Mycroft’s new PA for the first time, even he does a double take. The woman with the forever-changing name makes him curious and he spends two days watching her and Mycroft through surveillance feeds. When this doesn’t shed light on the situation, he hacks Mycroft’s computer (the advantage of being in charge of Civil Service cyber security) and searches it for, well, anything really, only to find nothing. 

When his second boyfriend breaks up with him, Mycroft tells him that “caring is not an advantage” and he curses how eerily right Mycroft appears to be. Despite his negative attitude towards forming attachments it is Mycroft who gives him a kitten for Christmas that same year. 

He calls her Zed and spoils her rotten. 

He learns early on that Mycroft has a brother, is surprised when said brother aka “Simon Hawkes” quits MI6 without warning, learns in the same breath not to question seemingly overprotective surveillance measures and is glad for them later on when they make it easier to find Sherlock. It is him that Mycroft calls when Sherlock goes missing, him he trusts to choose the rehab facility, him who gets to keep an eye on the man’s progress and gets free rein to ruin a nurse’s credit ratings for supplying a recovering Sherlock with morphine. 

It is him who compiles a comprehensive file on Dr John Watson and him who coordinates with the operative breaking into Dr Thompson’s office to steal her notes on the man.

And it is him Mycroft suggests as the successor of Major Boothroyd minutes after an explosion exposes MI6 like a raw nerve to the whims of a rogue agent. He, who Bill Tanner interviews and M sizes up with a glance, he who sheds his third name and adopts a letter instead. 

He learns more from one day with James Bond than he did in the years prior to it. He rebuilds MI6’s security, still ignores politics while being aware of them, takes over the most dangerous missions and guides his agents through them expertly. 

He moves into a bigger flat with even better security. He spends the time waiting for a Double-oh to update in the workshop, tinkering and building things. He strikes up a cordial friendship with Eve Moneypenny, maybe even finds a best friend in her, something he never really had. 

He gives 007 an exploding pen on the anniversary of the former M’s death and finds himself on the receiving end of an honest smile from James Bond. 

Bond brings him a modified rifle with integrated rocket launcher and tablet computer from his next mission that Q spends two sleepless days deconstructing with a permanent grin on his face that scares his minions so much they leave him to it except for when they bring him tea. 

He still does favours for Mycroft, sends vital information his way, hacks a government or two for intel and on one memorable occasion in 2012, shortly after MI6 has moved back into their old headquarters, makes sure a very alive Sherlock Holmes gets out of Britain safely. 

And on one memorable day in 2015, he meets Sherlock Holmes in person, wide-eyed and pale as if he had seen a ghost.

*~*~*

**_Present day_ **

Q’s fingers are itching towards the second laptop. The other one is running a decryption programme on some of the data he uncovered. He has time. Maybe ten minutes or more. 

Twelve years ago he looked into Mycroft Holmes as soon as he was able to establish a secure connection, but didn’t find anything out of the ordinary and pushed the matter aside. 

In light of Sherlock’s reaction to him, however, it is all Q can concentrate on. 

He shouldn’t. 

Well, he also shouldn’t build things for the sole purpose of getting a smile out of a certain Double-oh and he also shouldn’t hack the LSTCC and temper with traffic lights when the need arises. Oh, and he definitely shouldn’t listen in on 007’s missions, even when he isn’t the one running them. 

So yes, Q opens the second laptop and yes, he looks everywhere he can think of. His most prominent theory at the moment is that Mycroft Holmes had a second brother that looked a lot like Q himself. It would explain Sherlock’s reaction in the building tonight. 

Yet if another Holmes ever walked amongst them, his existence has been sufficiently wiped out. There is _nothing_. Absolutely nothing. 

A tad frustrated, Q diverts his attention to the newly decrypted files.

*~*~*

It is four o’clock in the morning when Q lets himself into his flat, tablet containing the less pressing data in his bag to review until he falls asleep over it. He sent his report to Mycroft’s secret phone (the one only Q knows about, that is… the man probably has several secret phones) and was told to go home in no uncertain terms. 

Something is different, however. He can’t put a finger on it but the moment he enters his flat he feels… something. Maybe an intruder. Q reaches for the gun hidden behind the coat stand – yet his fingers close around thin air. 

Q has no illusion that whoever was able to get past his security will easily be able to incapacitate him. Still. He grabs an umbrella and braces himself as he advances into the flat until the hallway opens up to the living room. 

“You want to beat me with a stick? Really?” comes a familiar voice and Q doesn’t know whether to be shocked or annoyed. 

“007? What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

“Please.”

“Is – is that my _cat_ on your lap?”

Bond looks beyond smug as he strokes a blissed out Zed behind her ears. Q can only imagine what if must feel like, having Bond’s hands – 

Yes, stopping that thought right now. 

“What are you drinking?” he asks when his eyes fall on the tumbler on the coffee table in front of the sofa. 

“Tequila. You really need to stock up your minibar.”

“I don’t drink much. Eve left that.”

Bond narrows his eyes. “Date night?”

Q chuckles. “More like girl’s night… There was a film involved. I don’t remember much. Like I said – I don’t drink.”

He leaves his guest alone in order to put the kettle on and get a handle on his pulse, still slightly faster from the intruder scare. And now James Bond is in his flat. At four in the morning. Caressing his cat. 

“Tea?” he calls. 

“Yes, thank you.” 

Q pauses. Mugs? China? Does Bond take sugar? Should he carry out a tray? 

“Black, please,” Bond adds, solving Q’s mental debate. So Bond likes his tea like he takes his coffee. He brews tea, adds a splash of milk to his and joins Bond in the living room, taking the armchair instead of the other half of the sofa. 

“How do you even know where I live? That’s highly classified information.”

“I should quit my job if I can’t find out a detail like that, wouldn’t you say?”

“Granted… That still doesn’t explain why you decided to break into my flat when you usually enjoy annoying me in my office.”

Bond smiles, sipping his tea. “I have a question.”

“Yes?” Q swallows, refusing to think about what that question might be. Too bad he has a rather vivid imagination. 

“What was that today? With this Sherlock Holmes?” The ‘Why did he look at you like you were a ghost’ goes unsaid but Q hears it anyway. 

He sighs, tightening his grip on the mug. “I take it you know by know who Sherlock Holmes is?”

Bond shrugs. “Genius detective, almost as good at resurrection as I am, apparently. And somehow he ended up on Moriarty’s list of favourite targets. I do envy him for that,” he adds, voice dripping with sarcasm. 

“You might be more familiar with his alias Simon Hawkes.”

That remark elicits the response Q anticipated. Bond blinks at him, lips slightly parted in surprise. 

“Sherlock Holmes was Simon Hawkes? Damn. No wonder John Watson stuck to him.”

“How do you know John Watson?”

“Had a mission in Afghanistan a few years back, shortly after I became 007. You probably were still in nappies at the time,” Bond quips and Q would roll his eyes but it clearly isn’t worth the energy right now. “Watson helped out. I completed my mission.”

“And you recognise him on sight, still, years later?”

“Well, nothing better for forming lasting impressions than three days in the hands of an Arab terror cell and him stitching up my wounds.” 

“Oh, John Watson was the army doctor who saved your life?” It slips out before Q can think about how it must sound. 

Bond’s grin turns practically predatory at that. “Did you memorise all my mission reports?”

“I know these things about every agent in my care.”

“And here I thought I was _special_.” 

Q opens his mouth to respond but has enough presence of mind to bite his tongue. Literally, in this case. Bond is clearly pulling his leg… He can’t be serious. 

“Zed certainly likes you,” Q says instead, nodding to the purring ball of fur in Bond’s lap. 

“Zed?” His blue eyes are twinkling. 

“Surprisingly I named her like this before I became Q.” 

“Foreshadowing in a cat name. Only you, Q. Only you.”

Somehow the fond tone in which Bond says it warms something in Q’s chest and he has to fight off the colour rising in his cheeks. 

“I don’t know if you planned to leave, but I doubt you will get her off you,” he babbles in a desperate attempt to keep the silence at bay. 

“Will she hurt me if I try? Is she a trained killer?”

“Yes, her claws are vicious. Especially when there is tuna involved.”

Bond chuckles from low in his chest. “I’d better wait until she gets up on her own, then.”

“You really don’t need to –”

“It’s fine. You should go to bed, Q. You should sleep and don’t tell me you plan on going in late tomorrow.”

“Uh, alright.” A little out of his depth, Q gathers the mugs and the tumbler as well as the now empty bottle of Tequila and puts them in the sink. “Do you need a blanket?” he asks awkwardly once he is back from the kitchen, but Bond shakes his head, his fingers still buried in Zed’s fur. 

“I’m fine. Go to bed, Q.”

He nods stupidly but does as he is told. It is all very weird and his thoughts run around in circles in his head for a long time before he eventually falls asleep. His alarm goes off three hours later because he has to be at a meeting at 10am. 

When he finally gathers the courage to enter the living room, the sofa is empty and the mugs are clean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favourite chapters in part I, by the way. I hope you enjoyed it equally?
> 
> Relevant meta:  
> [More Tea Please, We're Sherlocked](http://wellingtongoose.tumblr.com/post/47307195890/more-tea-please-were-sherlocked) \- by wellingtongoose  
> [Mycroft the Enigma](http://wellingtongoose.tumblr.com/post/32412162614/enigma1) \- by wellingtongoose, which clarifies a bit what a Civil Servant is 
> 
> Influences:  
> Every 00Q fic in which Bond breaks into Q’s flat, especially “[Synchronicity](http://archiveofourown.org/works/572931)” by stereobone.  
> Every 00Q fic in which Bond brings Q tea/food/souvenirs, especially “[Wooing Rituals of the James Bond Variety](http://archiveofourown.org/works/573150)” by Elenothar.  
> Q building stuff for Bond is the hilarious hook of “[Love and Other Hazardous Materials](http://archiveofourown.org/works/572394)” by luchia.  
> Q tampering with traffic lights in “[a pox on all your machines](http://archiveofourown.org/works/561709)” by scioscribe.  
> And the kitten is named after Z, Q’s sibling in “[The Perils of Dating a Werewolf](http://archiveofourown.org/works/928168/chapters/1809869)” by BootsnBlossoms and Kryptaria, my favourite 00Q author duo.


	3. My Bloody Valentine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to all those who commented, subscribed, gave kudos or bookmarked – you give me life! 
> 
> This chapter is mostly 00Q-centric – enjoy :)

Back in May of last year, Sherlock prided himself with actually going back to Baker Street after the wedding before buying drugs. 

He even managed to occupy his time a bit, moving John’s chair into his bedroom where he didn’t have to look at it every other second, where it didn’t serve as a constant reminder that, first thing next morning, John would be on a plane and go on his honeymoon with his pregnant wife. 

And then Sherlock was standing in the middle of the flat, empty silence enveloping him and nothing there to slow down his thoughts. 

Later he would tell everyone it was for a case and eventually, it was. Initially, though, it really wasn’t. 

He is not, in fact, an addict. He uses occasionally and heroine cocktails aren’t as addictive as the media makes them out to be. He can very well live without drugs. He can also live without cigarettes, as long as there are cases.

There are several, thankfully, in the weeks after… Moriarty hasn’t been in contact since New Year’s Eve but Sherlock has been keeping himself busy, trying to find members of Moriarty’s new web. That should effectively suffice. 

And yet it doesn’t. 

Baker Street is empty. No jumpers in the linen basket, no baked beans in the cupboards because those were John’s. Sherlock moves the coffee back from where Janine put it yet it isn’t used for anything. 

On the rare occasions that John comes to 221B, some tiny detail will always remind Sherlock of his lying wife and the beautiful Beth. 

It is after such days that Sherlock’s nightmares are most extreme.

*~*~*

After the Milligan case, M informs James that he is not to be deployed for missions that last longer than a few days at most since he and Q have been requested to help out with the Moriarty situation. Apparently Mycroft Holmes is amassing a task force. 

James shrugs and internally delights. He prefers working with Q. Much more fun trying to goad him via coms and he is adorable in his own way when he gets into a strop. 

Shorter missions also mean James is closer to London most times and when he returns from his first mission after Milligan, he calls up John Watson on a whim. After all, it seems impossible to talk about Sherlock Holmes without mentioning his blogger and since James will have to deal with the Moriarty situation sooner or later, it only makes sense to do some research. 

If said research occurs while consuming several pints of beer, all the better. 

“So why aren’t you in Afghanistan anymore?”

“I got shot.” John gives him a one-sided shrug. “Shoulder.”

“Too bad. You were a good medic.”

“Well, you were a bloody awful patient,” John shoots back and their eyes meet across their pints, both remembering the same.

*~*~*

**_Seven years ago_ **

The bomb goes off, causing the ground underneath John’s feet to shake. Another grenade, another blast, more ringing in his ear, echoing through the desert. 

He keeps close to the other man, ducking shots, the sound of blood rushing in his ears almost eclipsing those of the bullets flying past them. John sees the grenade for the briefest of moments. He yanks James backwards, the shock wave enough to propel them to the ground. 

They make it out alive, but barely so. James clutches his side and his hand comes away bloody. 

“Let me see.” It is nowhere near a request and maybe that is why James shakes his head defiantly. “We’re safe for now, get your bloody shirt off!”

“If you wanted to see me naked, all you had to do was ask,” the operative purrs despite the pain he must be in and John can feel his cheeks warming up. But at least now James is moving, trying to strip off the dirty jacket and revealing a T-shirt that is soaked already. 

John ruffles through the bag he stole from the terrorists during their escape and can’t believe his luck when he finds some form of a first-aid kit inscribed in Farsi. He turns back to the agent. 

“Bloody hell.”

James chuckles, yet it sounds more like a cough. “You should see me when I’m not covered in three days’ worth of dirt.”

“Stop it now,” John tells him, leaning in to inspect the shrapnel buried in his side and pointedly ignoring the definition of his abs and chest. 

He works in concentrated silence. It has to hurt like hell, yet somehow James grits his teeth and only occasionally grunts in pain. When John wraps him up in bandages, he can’t quite stop his fingers from skirting over exposed skin a few times. He just escaped a kidnapping; he thinks he is allowed to indulge in frivolous stuff. Besides, it seems to amuse James enough to take his mind off the pain. 

They start walking towards the nearest outpost or anything that might be of help. At first they make good progress, then James’s pace slows and after two hours the sun has set completely. It is cold and James has trouble keeping himself upright. 

John does the only thing he can think of – he supports him and when James collapses with sweat on his forehead, John knows he has to hurry. He carries him until he hears the sound of a patrol and doesn’t leave James’ side until the wounds have been taken care of and his vitals are stable once more. 

James comes to say goodbye the following day. Mission accomplished he is on the next flight out. 

“Thank you.” The agent smiles as broadly as he can without wincing. 

John returns it equally bright and is about to speak when a young nurse interrupts them. 

“Major Sholto wants to see you, Captain Watson,” is all she says. John gives her a curt nod as she leaves. 

“Well,” James sighs and his expression is almost wistful. “Good luck, then.”

“You too. And if there’s ever another minor terror cell that needs dismantling, let me know.”

“You can bet on it,” James replies with a wink and the next moment he is gone.

*~*~*

**_Now_ **

It’s John who breaks eye contact and clears his throat back in the pub. 

“So what happened to the thing?” James asks because he can’t hold himself back anymore. He is curious by nature. It’s one of his many, many character flaws. 

“Pardon?”

“The thing between you and, what was it, Sholto?”

John’s shoulders tense and his grip tightens around his pint. Hopefully John has never tried his hand at undercover work, he would be eaten alive, being obvious like that.

“It, uh, ended,” John says pointedly, averting his eyes.

“Sorry to hear that.”

Sighing, the former soldier licks his lips, then glances up at James through his lashes before checking their surroundings. 

“Well, it wasn’t to last. He was my commander, after all.”

James has to bite his lip before he turns the explanation into a cheap innuendo, yet John seems to be catching on just fine. He laughs tersely and then throws his napkin at James. 

“Stop it. Glad to see you haven’t grown up in the past seven years.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know… For a special someone?” James knows his face falls before he can stop it and of course the other man notices, brows creasing in worry. “Sorry, didn’t mean to…”

“You didn’t know.”

“Want to tell me what happened?”

“I fell in love, quit the agency, we were happy – until she betrayed my trust and stabbed me in the back. Had to watch her drown.”

John is silent for a moment. “I had to watch my best friend kill himself.”

Curious, how the doctor’s first association with Vesper’s story would be Sherlock Holmes, James notes. “But he came back.”

“Yeah. Bet you die every other week what with the life you’re leading.”

“Just every other month. But now I’ve got Q to track me down it’s not as easy anymore, going off the grid.”

“To him then,” John suggests, raising his glass. 

“To Q,” James agrees, taking a large gulp from his beer.

*~*~*

 _The sound of helicopter blades fills the air, red dots on his chest. Magnussen goes down, eyes open yet unseeing, a hole in his forehead. Sherlock’s hands, tainted red with blood. The spotlight found him. “Christ, Sherlock,” echoes in his ears. Shackles around his wrists and feet, bound to the wall opposite Moriarty. “Murderer,” he whispers, “murderer,” over and over again._

Sherlock wakes with a gasp, suddenly upright on the sofa. His pulse is racing and he can feel his shirt clinging to his chest and back, wet from perspiration. 

It takes him minutes to gather his bearing. It wasn’t even one of the more severe nightmares. Right after New Year he woke screaming and couldn’t stop his body from shaking for twenty desperate minutes. 

This is why he sleeps even less than usual these days. 

Sherlock rubs his eyes, sliding his feet off the sofa. His mobile is still on the coffee table and a quick glance shows a new text message. 

_Are you ok, Sherl? Haven’t heard from you in weeks, I’m getting worried._

_I’m a bit busy, as you might imagine. – SH_

_Yes… Any luck?_

_I’m making progress. – SH_

When Janine doesn’t text back, Sherlock rolls his eyes. 

_Taunting silence via text, really? – SH_

_Really. You owe me drinks._

_Why? – SH_

_Because you made me keep the bees._

_You’ll thank me when you have fresh honey. – SH_

_Doubtful. So – drinks? Pretty please, Sherl?_

Sherlock groans, cradling his head in his hands. Janine might not be as tedious as the rest of humanity, yet whenever he went out with her (two times so far), he spent the entire night deducing suitable men for her and discovering how vile Tequila-based drinks are. 

Still. Now that John spends his days with nappies and baby oil and he can’t go near a dealer without Mycroft or Lestrade breathing down his neck, a night out with socially approved drugs might be worth a try. 

_Alright. I’ll text you. – SH_

_Looking forward to it!_

*~*~*

In the very early morning hours of Valentines’ Day, James arrives in London in a stolen car, bleeding all over the front seat. It is not the blood loss, though, that is causing his blurry vision – that is entirely the fault of his bruised eye. 

He doesn’t look at himself in the rear-view mirror. 

There is a cut on his lower back, too difficult to reach for him on his own. He will need someone else to stitch him up, but Alec is out of the country on a mission and James won’t go to medical. 

Which leaves one place where he might receive help – if its inhabitant doesn’t shoot him on sight. 

James doesn’t use the door. He enters the flat through a window next to the neighbour’s balcony, picking the lock with surprisingly steady hands. Under the cover of darkness he stumbles into Q’s flat, not caring how much noise he makes. 

He remembers the bathroom from his first visit, flicks on the light before he can think it through. When his vision has adjusted to the brightness, someone is standing behind him. He tenses briefly until he catches the reflection of tousled hair and rimmed glasses in the mirror. 

Q blinks at him in surprise but manages to catch himself impressively soon. 

“You should be in medical.”

“And yet here I am.” James opens the cupboard above the sink. “Please tell me you have a first-aid kit.”

“I do, which still doesn’t explain why you’re in need of it.”

Instead of answering, James makes quick work of his shirt, letting it fall to the floor in a blood-stained heap. The way Q’s eyes briefly come to rest on his bare chest doesn’t escape James. 

“I can’t reach it,” he says in way of explanation, shifting slightly to call attention to the wound.

“Christ, what kind of knife was that?”

“A sword, actually.”

“Huh.” Q’s eyes are fixed on the injured skin. The kid probably never had so much as a scrape before, what with playing with his computers all day. 

“First-aid kit?”

Q startles out of his reprieve. “Apologies.” 

He slips away, returning a few moments later with a rather pathetic excuse for first aid supplies. In the meantime James has a moment to consider the damage in the mirror. It looks worse than it is, safe for the cut. Mostly superficial bruises that will hurt like hell but leave no lasting damage. 

“The worst I ever get is a cut from spare computer parts, and then mostly all I need is a plaster.”

“I’m afraid that won’t do.” The wound is deep, after all. 

Q sighs, pushing his glasses back up from where they have slid down. “Medical would have all you needed, 007.” 

“So would Alec, but he’s causing trouble in Nairobi.”

Seconds trickle by in silence as Q seems to be making up his mind about whether or not to call medical anyway and force James into their care. Something however seems to make him reconsider. 

“I have dental floss?” he offers. 

“It’ll do.”

Q startles. “Wait, really?” 

James shrugs dismissively. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Apparently this is not the answer Q was expecting for he proceeds to gape rather unattractively at him. 

“The reputation of you Double-ohs doesn’t do you justice.”

James chuckles at that. Dental floss is not, in fact, the worst thing he has done to his body. “Do you have a needle? Or any acceptable substitute? Better yet, one of these miniature sewing boxes?”

That seems to strike a chord with the quartermaster. “I might. Wait here – don’t bleed out.”

“It’s not that deep either!” James calls after him, deciding he might use the time until Q returns by cleaning himself up. Q can foot him the dry cleaning bill for the towels he uses. 

The towels are soft, good quality. Nothing remarkable in terms of colour patterns, just as average as the bathroom, white tiled, big for one person, and surprisingly clean. Maybe Q has a cleaning lady, what with the hours he keeps. 

“I hope this will do,” comes from the door and Q presents him with a small sewing kit, like the ones James has seen parents carry around in their handbags for emergencies. Like the ones James usually has stashed away on his person for just these instances, if he hadn’t lost all of his equipment and most of his clothes. 

“Good. You’ll need to finish cleaning the wound for me. And sterilise the equipment.”

“And then just sew you together?”

“I’ll walk you through it.”

Q draws a deep breath but does as he is told. 

As promised, James talks him through every step, downing a lot of the scotch that somehow found its way into Q’s flat as an alternative to anaesthetics. Q hesitates when it comes to the actual sewing, unsure of what to do with the hand that is not holding the needle. 

After a reassuring nod he places it on James’ hip, right next to the cut while James is leaning against the sink, holding as still as possible. 

Q finishes it off with a surgical knot James doesn’t even need to explain, then dresses the wound with material from the first-aid kit. 

“Thank you,” James tells him, looking at the result in the mirror. “You did a great job.”

“Well, if I ever get bored in Q Branch I shall switch to medical then, shan’t I?”

James chuckles at the thought. “Only there no one would bring back your equipment at all.”

With a groan, Q gathers up the pile of bandage wrappings and unused garn. “I assume it’s unnecessary to ask whether you will return anything from your mission?”

“Does ‘I jumped from a ship, then was apprehended by terrorists’ count as an excuse?”

“You know it doesn’t. At least that is more believable than the one with the Komodo dragon.”

“The dragon _did_ eat my Walther.”

“Saying it over and over again won’t make me believe it, 007.”

James shakes his head, more amused than annoyed after three years of trying to convince the other man of his honesty in that matter. He picks up his shirt, which hasn’t been white since he escaped his captors, and turns to Q. 

“You wouldn’t happen to have a spare shirt I can borrow tomorrow?”

To his credits, his Quartermaster doesn’t question the implication that James is spending the night, as little of it as may be left, just nods. 

“Come on, 007, I’ll find you a blanket for the sofa.”

“Not going to offer the wounded man your bed?” 

“I’d offer you a bed in medical but that ship has sailed.”

“Touché.”

As James settles on the sofa, he takes in the living area. It hasn’t changed from his last visit – just as clean, yet with more spare computer parts lying about. Maybe it is because it is the weekend and Q, for once, is spending it at home rather than at MI6. The coffee table between the TV and the sofa is covered in sketches – Q seems to be developing a new radio and a bunch of other things. 

Q is across the room to his right, in the part of the flat that houses the kitchen. He returns with a glass of water and a few pills. 

“For the pain, if the whisky stops working.”

“Thank you.”

Q looks down at him, maybe wanting to say more, yet in the end he doesn’t. “Good night, 007.”

“Good night, Q.”

James watches him disappear through a door on his left.

*~*~*

He dreams of water, of ships, of Venice, of drowning. He wakes with a gasp three hours after he fell asleep, still on his stomach to avoid aggravating the wound, yet his knuckles are white from where his hands are fisted into the blankets. 

He hates how, over eight years later, he still gets nightmares from cases involving vast amounts of water. 

It is quarter to six, too early for sunrise in late winter. He flicks on a lamp in the corner and takes in the space. His back is to the window through which he entered and the open space between the wall and the television is filled with cat toys and two scratchers. Q built an interesting frame to protect his TV, though. James bets the cat could even jump on top of it without risking damage. To his left there is the kitchen, nestled in the corner. A wall separates another room from the flat, probably an office or a workshop. The bedroom is to his right, bathroom on the same side closer to the door. 

James spends an hour or so inspecting the bookshelves, surprised to see as much fiction as non-fiction. Quite a lot of classics, yet those are all pristine editions, usually from the same publisher. A gift, maybe?

No pictures. No personal items. James wonders what Q’s bedroom looks like. 

Alright, almost no personal items, he corrects himself as he spies a small wooden elephant James brought back from a mission in India. They had joked on the com that elephants were a suitable means of transportation and somehow James had promised to bring Q one for testing. Since James didn’t have room for a live one, he had opted for a smaller, less animated version. 

The souvenir is sitting on a bookshelf, near some well-used volumes and James tries not to read too much into this. 

He ends up making breakfast, surprised at how well stocked Q’s kitchen is. He finds eggs, tomatoes, bacon and toast and by the time he finishes, Q has emerged bleary-eyed from his bedroom and gone straight to making tea. 

When James puts a plate in front of him, Q stares as if he has grown another head. 

“What?”

“You can cook?”

“Makes poisoning people easier,” James deadpans. When Q’s eyes widen, he adds, “but I also enjoy it from time to time.”

“Well, thank you. You needn’t have.”

“I was hungry. Seemed selfish to not make enough for two.”

They eat in silence since apparently, Q is not a morning person. James is perfectly awake whenever he opens his eyes – has to be, or else he would have died years ago – but Q doesn’t even look awake until his second cup of Earl Grey. 

He manages to find a shirt that fits, though barely, and James leaves – through the door this time. M is expecting him for his debrief and maybe he can steal some of the good painkillers from medical with enough time to spare to retrieve his spare suit from where he hid it.

*~*~*

When Q’s brain is fully online after another cup of tea and a shower he still can’t quite believe what happened. 

006 was out of town and Q’s flat is the first alternative on Bond’s list? 

Well, in a way it makes sense: Q is his Quartermaster, in a position of trust. Yet trusting Q to give him the necessary intel and trusting Q to take a needle to his skin are two different things. Or are they? For a Double-oh? 

_Don’t read too much into it. Don’t._

It becomes Q’s mantra that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the idea of past John/James, but James chose the wrong time to get himself in trouble in this case^^ I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I did!
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr at [multifandom-madnesss](http://multifandom-madnesss.tumblr.com/) or [bondlocked](http://bondlocked.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> Relevant Meta:  
> [The Science of Addiction](http://wellingtongoose.tumblr.com/post/47045679219/sherlock-his-drug-habit-and-the-science-of) – wellingtongoose  
> M-theory: [Sign of Three](http://loudest-subtext-in-television.tumblr.com/post/79046838949/m-theory-the-sign-of-three) and [His Last Vow](http://loudest-subtext-in-television.tumblr.com/post/79048996634/m-theory-his-last-vow) – LSiT (if you read it, better start with the [introduction](http://loudest-subtext-in-television.tumblr.com/post/79041544289/m-theory-mycroft-moriarty-and-magnussens))


	4. In Arduis Fidelis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s Valentine’s Day takes a turn for the eerie. Q stumbles upon a fragment of data that will change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS. This contains one of my favourite scenes that I have ever written. I hope you love it as much as I do!

Even the paper seems to mock him. A large part of the front page is consumed by an overly sentimental article about Valentine’s Day. Sherlock scowls at it, contemplating if there is an experiment that involves exploding newspapers for a bit before he simply opts to crumble it and toss it in the bin. 

He is bored and without John’s gun in sight, he can’t even shoot at the wall. Maybe he can drop by and nick it in passing; John is so predictable about where he stores his weapon and will continue to be until his daughter is old enough to actually grab objects of that size. 

Yes, a visit to the Watsons’ is in order, Sherlock decides and descends the stairs shortly after. 

He is almost out of the front door when he hears a cry – not that of an adult, but that of a child; more specifically that of Beth. 

He finds the little girl in a cot in Mrs Hudson’s flat while his landlady is hurriedly preparing a bottle in her kitchen. 

“Oh, Sherlock, hope our young lady didn’t wake you!”

“Not at all; the capacity of her lungs may be impressive, yet several walls and a staircase still pose ample challenge for her. Why is she here?” he adds, narrowing his eyes at Mrs Hudson.

“I’m babysitting for the day, to give John and Mary the day to themselves.”

“Why?”

“It’s Valentine’s Day, Sherlock!” she exclaims and Sherlock can’t suppress the eye-roll and groan the reminder elicits. Mrs Hudson’s face falls. The bloody woman is far too perceptive for her own good when she isn’t blatantly oblivious like the rest of the world. “Do you want to keep me company? You know she really likes you.”

It is true. For whatever reason, young Elisabeth has taken a fancy to Sherlock. Maybe it is because the first thing he showed her at Baker Street was his skull, something that utterly delights her still, even though she has yet to acquire the skill of seeing farther than 30 centimetres. 

Before he can answer, however, the doorbell rings. 

Client. 

“Another time, Mrs Hudson,” he says curtly and makes his way to greet whoever is waiting outside – hopefully an eight. Not that Sherlock would turn down a five, given how bored he is… 

The case is a 6. Fortunately for the man whose long-term girlfriend was found dead yesterday in a recently vacated flat, Sherlock has substantial motivation to get busy. 

“They said it was suicide, that she went there to kill herself, used some kind of drug, but Paola hasn’t even smoked pot before and she was happy, no need to take her own life, everything was going great!”

Sherlock mostly tuned the bloke out after he mentioned the drug’s name and Sherlock realised that it is often used to sedate exotic animals that are being illegally smuggled across the globe. 

At the crime scene, Sherlock finds evidence that the flat used to be home to a squatter, then mobilises his homeless network to find the man. 

“I heard a rattlin’ in the walls, sir,” the bloke tells him. “Ain’t stayin’ in a house that’s haunted, y’know? I hightailed outta there three days ago.”

It is incredibly easy after that. 

The flat where Paola was found belongs to a building that stands back to back with another one located one street over, which is where one can find the pet shop that supplies the food for Paola’s exotic animal collection (all rather dull creatures, in Sherlock’s opinion). 

“What your people missed,” he explains pointedly to Greg at the end of the day, standing in the crime scene, “which really did surprise me, you are getting sloppy, really, Gavin,” the DI doesn’t even huff this time, “but what you missed is not only the squatter who lived here before the murder but also this shaft.”

Sherlock removes the large picture hanging on the wall and gently pushes open the door, revealing the mentioned shaft, leading down into the darkness. 

“I suspect this building complex used to be a storage room of some sort; the shaft was used to transport goods down to the shop at the other side. Nowadays, of course, the shopkeeper uses it to hide illegal animals that he smuggles into the UK with his regular shippings. Get forensics to search for the entrance to this shaft in the shop’s backrooms and you should get all the evidence you need. Or do you want me to hold their hands while they do it?”

He grins, relishing the open-mouthed gape he receives from Lestrade. He leaves with a promise to email his report some time tomorrow and heads back to Baker Street where he arrives just in time to give Beth the bottle. 

Yet when he opens the door to his flat, there is a surprise waiting for him. A single white daisy, speckled with blood, has been placed on the desk along with a note. 

Sherlock swallows as he approaches the items carefully, bending forward to read the handwritten message. 

_Hope you liked my present today, Sherlock. Couldn’t have solved it sooner myself. Oh, and don’t bother to test the blood – it’s Paola’s._

His pulse stutters as he realises the implications of the message. Moriarty set up the case. Was it his smuggling ring? Did he sacrifice it? Or did he simply dislike its leader, who would surely end up behind bars for a long time? It is more than that, though: not only was Moriarty or some of his goons here, in his flat, but Beth was right downstairs. He could have… 

Sherlock shakes his head. He cannot even think about it. 

Memories of a young voice scared of the C4 strapped to his body haunt Sherlock’s thoughts. He will have to make sure Moriarty doesn’t get to Beth. Even if it means asking Mycroft for help with surveillance. 

Sherlock doesn’t go to bed that night. He would not have been able to dream peacefully if he had.

*~*~*

In the week after Valentine’s Day, agent 004 discovers a string of strange deaths in China while on a recon mission. Small-scale government officials have been assassinated and no one knows why, so M decides that 004 shall bring back anything she can for Q Branch to take a look. 

Q doesn’t really expect to find anything but he looks closely nonetheless. It’s late on Wednesday when he finally makes it to the final laptop, which according to 004 was the private computer of one of the leading figures of the National Immigration Agency. 

His current theory is that someone was unhappy with the exit visa process and took a gun to the victims’ heads. 

Well, obviously it’s not a very good theory. 

Q is almost done when he detects the tiniest hint of fragments on the hard drive. Deleted, yes, but not irretrievable. It takes some playing around but eventually Q has reassimilated a few emails dating back to March 2010. 

_You are to grant exit visas to the United Kingdom to a travelling circus under the leadership of Lien Shan, one of them reads._

Q tilts his head. Most emails have been extremely polite yet this one’s tone strikes him as especially odd. A quick search for “Lien Shan” shows she died basically immediately after she returned from London. On a hunch, Q checks when she re-entered China and with _whom_ , then runs a facial-recognition programme through the surveillance data of London’s airports on the dates she must have boarded a plane. 

Nothing. 

Also no pictures, no autopsy reports. 

Lien Shan, leader of the Black Lotus, is granted an exit permit and never really makes it back. 

Q’s spy senses are tingling. 

He endeavours to trace the sender of the suspicious email, which is hard even for him since it was sent almost five years ago. However, he didn’t become Q because he is simply ‘good’. He did because he is ‘the best’. Well, maybe second best after Moriarty or whoever he blackmails into doing his hacking for him. 

It’s thrilling, difficult and the most fun Q has had behind a computer since M allowed him to hack the NSA last summer. An hour later, Q almost whoops triumphantly as he has finally located the original sender. 

Then his smile freezes. Everything freezes. The world tilts on its axis. 

It can’t be. 

He knows the sender’s IP address. Even more – the reason why tracing the information was so difficult is because Q himself is responsible for its encryption. 

The IP address belongs to Mycroft Holmes.

*~*~*

Thirty minutes later, Q has wiped all hints of what he has been doing from every server and database he has accessed, storing all important information on a flash drive and making a security copy just in case, which he hides in the secret safe in his office. 

Then he paces.

*~*~*

In the end it all comes down to loyalty. While Q is prepared to die for Queen and Country, Mycroft is the one who took a chance on him. Q owes him, at least enough to give the man an opportunity to explain before Q takes his findings to M. 

The clock is nearing midnight. Mycroft is probably at home but Q doesn’t want to check the surveillance feeds since Mycroft would be alerted. Hacking into the SIS to look at them from the inside are three minutes he doesn’t have patience for right now. 

So Q locks up his office and heads to his car.

*~*~*

Q has been to Mycroft’s house in London several times, yet never unannounced. It is quiet and dark safe for a light on the first floor where Q knows Mycroft’s office to be located. 

Since he designed the security he takes it as a challenge to let himself in and sneak up to said room. Before he knocks, though, he activates the device he took with him when he left MI6 – a little something that disrupts the functionality of any bugs or monitoring equipment within a ten-metre radius. Just in case.

“Come in?” sounds Mycroft’s voice after a beat, and Q enters. Mycroft’s face betrays just a sliver of surprise. “Q. To what do I owe this late pleasure?”

He is wise enough not to ask how Q managed to get in undetected. 

“I found something,” he explains, reciting the little speech he prepared on the drive here. “And I felt compelled to ask you about it first before ringing any alarm bells.”

Only the slightest tightening around Mycroft’s mouth hints at the man’s reaction, otherwise his face remains perfectly blank. Q’s fingers are playing with the flash drive inside his jacket pocket. 

“And what did you find?”

Q takes a deep breath. “In 2010 you told an employee of the Chinese National Immigration Agency to grant an exit permit to a known criminal named Lien Shan and her entourage. She never made it back home, or if she did, she died the day after. As far as I am aware, Shan was the head of the Black Lotus, a vast criminal operation that makes millions if not billions every year. To me this looks highly suspicious, wouldn’t you say?”

“It does indeed.” Mycroft’s voice is hollow and he has blanched visibly during Q’s speech, confirming his worst fears. 

“Why?” Q blurts, finally giving into the urge and withdrawing his hands from his pockets. “Was it money?”

“Now, now, Q, you know better than that.”

“Then why?”

Mycroft’s eyes bore into him. It usually makes Q quite uncomfortable, knowing those eyes can tell everything about him. Today they don’t even make him shifty. 

Finally, Mycroft releases an audible breath, leaning back in his desk chair but leaving his arms where they are resting in his lap. 

“If I tell you the truth and you take your accusations to your superiors, it will cost me my job, which in turn will cost lives, so I urge you to consider this angle before making any hasty decisions. I would try to blackmail you, but I am rather hoping your loyalty extends a step further.”

“Blackmail me? How?” Q asks, genuinely confused. 

“Like everyone else you have a pressure point.”

Q can’t help the laugh this threat elicits. “I’d hardly call him a ‘pressure point’, Mycroft.”

“Would you like to test that theory?” 

His breath catches. This isn’t the Mycroft he is familiar with, he realises with chilling clarity. This is the Mycroft who once single-handedly talked several nations down from World War III, who ensures Britain’s continuing supply with oil; this is the Mycroft who lets people die for his country. 

“What boiling mess have you got yourself into, Mycroft?” Q practically pleads. 

“Do I have your word that none of this will leave this room if I am truthful?”

“I can’t promise you that… and you know it.”

“Then promise me you won’t leave until you have heard the full story.”

“That I can do.”

“Sit. Have a drink. I can’t do this without a certain degree of inebriation.”

Q obeys, shedding his jacket and folding it over the back of a chair in front of Mycroft’s desk, then takes the other one, accepting a glass of scotch from Mycroft, who remains standing. Q lets him – their power dynamic is buggered anyway. 

He waits patiently as the man downs his first glass and promptly refills it. It is an eerie sight, seeing Mycroft drink for the sake of drinking, not for the pleasure of fine liquids. Q’s stomach drops further as he steals himself for any worst-case scenario he can imagine. 

“It is a very delicate situation that I find myself in, Q. I wasn’t being dramatic when I said lives are at risk. As to your question regarding General Shan… I facilitated her journey to London on the behest of someone else. You were right to assume I had her killed and faked her records to make it appear as if she had met her maker in her home country.”

“Who has this much power over you?” Q sets his glass down and crosses his arms. “Quit stalling; it doesn’t suit you.”

Mycroft sips his scotch one last time before relinquishing his glass. He runs his hands across his face in a gesture that is so defeated that it makes Q’s chest hurt in sympathy. 

“My paths crossed with a spider several years ago and I thought myself superior. As it turns out, I wasn’t.”

“Who?”

“You have to consider, Q, that –” 

“ _Who_?” Q repeats, more forceful this time, leaning forward in his chair. 

Mycroft swallows. “Moriarty.”

The floor disappears from under Q’s feet. 

“Moriarty,” he echoes stupidly. “James Moriarty?”

A grave nod. 

“What does he have on you to make you dance after his tune? What could he possibly threaten you with?”

“He will kill my brother if I don’t comply or if I confess my sins. This why it is vital that you keep these details to yourself, Q, I implore you.”

Q has never heard Mycroft sounding distressed, not once. Not even when the world stood on the brink of a nuclear war. Somehow Q’s entire worldview lies in shambles on this office floor. 

“So that’s why Moriarty walked free in 2010. That’s why you released – oh,” Q realises, running a hand through his hair. “Of course – he would only talk to you, wouldn’t he? And it was you who determined to let him go… Tell me, Mycroft – did you know he was going to make your brother commit suicide?”

“Yes, but it was essential I help Sherlock fake it.”

“Just as you helped Moriarty?”

Mycroft remains silent.

“Of course, someone needed to take care of the body. Sherlock will have left that job to you, his trusted big brother. Tell me, Mycroft, by being in bed with the devil, how often have you put your brother in danger? How often did you think you could outsmart Moriarty and ended up thoroughly screwed?”

Mycroft doesn’t need to say anything – the look in his eyes is giving away enough.

“Is that why you didn’t say anything about Mary Morstan? Why you just ignored that a former assassin fell in love with John Watson? Did Moriarty tell you not to?”

“In turn I dismantled his network in Eastern Europe.”

“But only because he let you! Even I could only stop his transmission on New Year because he let me, Christ!” Q shouts, pushing his chair back and starting to pace as the extent of the mess dawns on him. “You know exactly what Moriarty’s up to, you ensure he isn’t caught, you probably help him hide the bodies in his wake – why don’t you just sodding kill him already? You have the entire Secret Service at your disposal, Mycroft! Use them!”

Mycroft seems unimpressed, waiting patiently until Q’s breathing has returned to a normal pace before he answers. “There are contingencies in place in case of Moriarty’s sudden death; snipers that will take out Sherlock if anything happens. This is also why I can’t come clean to my superiors. Why I can’t let Sherlock know. I wouldn’t even be allowed to tell you except I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that you are disrupting any surveillance equipment stationed here, including Moriarty’s.” Q’s eyes widen. His paranoia has been justified after all. “As the saying goes, my hands are bound.”

“Is there really nothing you can do?”

Mycroft sighs. “I keep hoping Sherlock will figure out what Moriarty’s plan is, that he will finally be one step ahead instead of seven behind, yet so far my hope has been misplaced.” 

“And what is his plan? I always thought he just wants… power. Or watch the world fight over it while he’s laughing at everyone else.”

“Quite an apt description, Q. However, you are missing one crucial aspect: Moriarty’s fascination with Sherlock. Maybe it even was my brother who first led Moriarty to me. However, over the years his fascination has only grown and become even more twisted.”

“So all the puzzles he sets out, it’s all for Sherlock?”

“My brother is blind to certain things, no matter how perceptive he is in others. I hope that one day he will see Moriarty’s true intentions and motivation because unless he does, Moriarty will always outplay him and eventually ruin him for good.”

Silence falls over the room as Q processes. It makes a twisted sort of sense, suddenly. Moriarty, the consulting criminal, the British Government in his pocket. The key that unlocks every door. 

“Wait,” Q adds. “What about Magnussen?” 

“What about him?”

“He… I,” Q hesitates. “I might have done some snooping.” Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “As far as I can tell, Sherlock killed Magnussen because the Appledore vaults didn’t exist, so he had no other way of protecting Morstan since apparently, Magnussen knows, or knew, about her past. But you… Sherlock took your laptop. I know you, you would never let that laptop out of your sight – he’d have to pry it from the cold hands of your corpse.” 

Oh. It all suddenly becomes very clear. “You let Sherlock take it! You thought it was going to work! You had no idea the vaults weren’t real.”

Mycroft doesn’t deny it, yet his face falls even more at the accusation. 

“Did Moriarty tell you to let Sherlock take your laptop?”

“Believe it or not, I figured that one out on my own.” At Q’s quizzical expression, Mycroft sighs again but indulges him with an explanation. “A few months ago, my brother was shot at CAM tower. John was with him at the moment, but he would never shoot his best friend. Sherlock saw his attacker, yet kept quiet. His attacker shot him with the precision of a sniper who didn’t aim for an immediate kill and fled the scene before John could see them. Mary, simple.”

“Mary wanted to shoot Magnussen because he knew about her past,” Q fills in the blanks.

“Yes. Now why would Magnussen threaten Mary, who has allegedly ended her criminal career?”

“Well,” Q say, drawing out the word to grant him more time to think. Realisation hits Q like a bucket of ice water. “She is John’s pressure point, John is Sherlock’s, Sherlock is yours. Magnussen threatened Mary to get to you.”

“Yes. There were several possible paths of action my brother could take and I was almost certain he would pretend to hand me over to Magnussen. I brought my laptop to our parents’ home not just because I needed to work, but because we never have Christmas at home, so this was an obvious sign that Sherlock would try something then. With your security, he can’t simply break into my house anymore and steal it without alerting half the SIS, after all.”

Q allows himself a smug smile at that. 

“So yes, I relinquished my laptop, aware the tracker would lead us right to Magnussen and ensuring his arrest since we were bound to find his files on several people of import.”

“Which only existed in his mind.”

“Yes.”

“And you convinced the proper channels to send Sherlock into the field again, let me equip him, charter a plane and everything, but because of Moriarty’s obsession with your brother, he chose that day to come back.”

“Ensuring Sherlock would remain in London, where Moriarty can continue to play with him.”

Q gulps down the rest of his drink, the liquid burning as it makes its way down his throat. Q hates it, but somehow at this moment it is a welcome sensation. 

“So what now? What is Moriarty’s plan?”

“Do I have your promise you will keep your silence, Q?”

Q could make lists of pros and cons in his mind, could weigh his possibilities, yet instead he listens to his instincts and they are all shouting the same thing at him. 

Now that Q is aware of what is going on, he can look for ways to help. Covertly, of course, without alerting anyone to his complicit status. Oh boy, if at any point this comes out, Q will lose his job. Which he wouldn’t have if it weren’t for Mycroft in the first place, so maybe this is some contorted form of karma. 

“Yes. You do.”

A bit of the tension bleeds from Mycroft’s shoulders. “Thank you.”

“So?”

“Moriarty has made it his mission to destroy my brother. I believe he wants to corrupt him to such an extent that Sherlock will work with him, cross sides, yet I highly doubt that would ever happen, even though I can only guess as to how Moriarty will accomplish that. In the case his plan fails, Moriarty will kill Sherlock, and I will do everything in my power to stop that from transpiring.” 

Q swallows. Moriarty is definitely the last man on earth he wants to meet face to face. “I’ll help. As much as I can.”

The smile Mycroft answers him with is more of a grimace. 

“Trust no one, Q. Moriarty’s people are everywhere and those who aren’t under his command are only one pressure point away from being there. Act as if you are under permanent observation. Don’t take risks. Don’t think yourself smarter than Moriarty – for you aren’t.”

Q nods tersely. “I shall do my best.”

“Thank you.” 

They share a look, the weight of the situation palpable in the room. Q picks up his jacket and crosses the room. His hand is already on the door handle when he turns around. This might be his only chance to quench yearlong curiosity. It seems a bit petty, admittedly, but Q has a record of wrong decisions fuelled by curiosity. 

“One last question.” 

Mycroft looks up from where he was contemplating the contents of his tumbler. He inclines his head in permission. 

“Did you and Sherlock ever have another brother?”

When he sees the myriad of emotions flicker across Mycroft’s face, Q feels like an arse to have asked. Yet taking it back is not an option. 

“Yes. Did you find a record of him?”

“No. But… When I met Sherlock, he…”

“Yes, I can imagine. You are the spitting image of him, Q.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was killed in action.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was my fault.”

The confessions startles Q more than anything else did today. 

“Something I did based on brotherly sentiment resulted in his capture and led to his death. Sherlock has never quite forgiven me, nor should he.”

There is nothing left to say. Q wants to apologise for reopening old wounds, wants to assure Mycroft that this time he won’t be responsible for the death of a sibling, but the words die on his tongue. 

He swallows, exchanges one last look with Mycroft, and opens the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Mycroft being under Moriarty’s thumb has been the core component of LSiT’s M-theory. Wellthengameover and finalproblem have also written extensively about it [here](http://wellthengameover.tumblr.com/post/97328231152/how-we-know-mycroft-is-under-jims-thumb) and [here](http://finalproblem.tumblr.com/theory-index), respectively.


	5. When I'm Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James makes a bet with himself. Three years. He gives it three more years before the rumours of his death won’t be gravely exaggerated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a 00Q-centric chapter, so enjoy :) We’ll also see Janine again and it marks the first time I’m introducing Mary’s point of view, which won’t be the last time. I really, really like her character, and she makes a great villain.

**_2012 – two and a half years ago_ **

James wonders how normal people grieve or if there is such a thing as “normal” when it comes to grieving in the first place. 

He allows himself to cry in the chapel. It is the place he mourned his parents when they died, so the symmetry of it resonates with something deep inside of him. 

It doesn’t take long until the extraction team arrives and James insists on being the one to put M down on the gurney. There is no flame licking away at his insides, no yearning for revenge. Silva is lying on the cold floor, knife still buried in his back. James pulls it out, wipes it on Silva’s clothes and pockets it before he follows medevac to the helicopter. 

By the time the sun rises the next morning, he has filled out the appropriate paperwork, keeping it as brief as possible. On the way to the hotel he booked himself into given that MI6 had sold his flat, he breaks into M’s house. He knows where she keeps her liquor. She would have wanted him to have it. She never drank McCallan anyway. 

He drowns himself in a whisky tumbler, resurfacing two days later to a call from HQ, telling him he has to requalify for the field. 

It is a pain in the arse, but it gives him something to focus on. His marksmanship scores have returned to perfection, yet his physical fitness is still lacking. He doesn’t heal as quickly as he used to.

He throws himself into his training instead of letting the fact that he is getting on in years drag him down. He trains harder than he has since his early days before the Navy when he couldn’t even do forty press-ups without collapsing. 

It pays off – he passes the tests, plays nice with the psychiatrist. After years of active service with yearly mandatory psychiatric evaluations, he knows which answers will make the shrinks sign off on his return to the field. 

On his first day back on active duty, Eve finds him on the roof of their newly renovated office in Vauxhall. 

The ceramic dog M left him is as ugly as it ever was yet the message is clear. _Don’t stop._

James won’t. He never planned for retirement. He has always known that he will die protecting Queen and Country, and nothing has changed. Except maybe that his time is actually running out now. 

He makes a bet with himself. Three years. He gives it three more years before the rumours of his death won’t be gravely exaggerated.

*~*~*

**_2015 – Almost three years later_ **

“007, put the Matryoshka down,” Q tells him sternly over the com, the Russian name for the nesting dolls rolling off his tongue easily. “You have a job to do.” 

“Well, I thought that elephant was getting lonely.”

A beat. “How thoughtful of you, but I assure you, Bond, the elephant is just fine on his own.”

“His?”

The briefest moment of silence rings out over the channel. “Pardon?”

“You named the elephant, Q,” James teases, wishing he could see Q like the Quartermaster can see him through the CCTV cameras located around him. Is Q blushing? Is there anyone in the room with him?

“This bears no significance to the mission. I would like you to keep your communication strictly professional, 007.”

“If you wish. But if I get you a souvenir, you’ll have to tell me his name.”

James swears he hears Q chuckle on the other end, yet the sound drowns in a hail of bullets that spur him into action. He makes sure to grab a Matryoshka before he takes off to find cover.

*~*~*

James is bleeding out. He knows it, and HQ would know it as well if he hadn’t lost his earpiece somewhere between the explosions, the extensive combat and getting shot at. 

As it is, James is currently a few kilometres south of his extraction point with only half an hour to make it and no means of transportation other than his two feet, which are heavy and tired. 

Oh, and there is also the fact that he is oozing blood from several holes in his body that weren’t there before he started the mission. 

Three years, he had said. Three. It might not be August yet, but the calendar says 2015. James’ conscience would be clear; bet won, duty done. Ten years ago the wounds would not have incapacitated him as much as they are doing now. He really is an old dog and no new tricks can hide that fact anymore. 

James sighs, shifting against the wall, hissing from the pain. Something bumps into his side. Something firm, yet not heavy. James pushes his hand into his jacket pocket and only realises that he still has the nesting doll when his fingers close around it. 

Q. He promised Q a souvenir. 

The moment of indecision stretches, enveloping James like a blanket. He would not be missed if he didn’t return. There are good operatives in training who would grow into competent Double-ohs. Still, his mind seems to be stuck on the image of a small elephant sitting lonely on a shelf, waiting for company. Q would scoff and huff, yet smile warmly nonetheless. 

Twenty minutes until extraction. James contemplates running, though discards it as soon as he is on his feet. He still has his gun, wonder of wonders, and thinks he recalls vehicles nearby. His movements are painful and slow, but after five minutes he spies the cars. A bullet takes care of the lock. He could hot-wire it in his sleep. 

Driving might not be the best idea in his unstable state, only the streets are empty so it hardly matters. 

He reaches the location just in time to crawl onto a gurney and hand himself over to the medical officer tasked with his care, the Matryoshka safely in his pocket.

*~*~*

It is the beeping that wakes him. James can tell from the feel of the mattress under him that he is in medical and the hazy veil slowing down his thoughts means his system is full of painkillers. 

His eyes blink open. The room is dimly lit, though James cannot tell the time of day from the light falling in through the window. Either dusk or dawn, the end of the day or the beginning. 

He shifts enough to be able to survey the room and immediately spots the Matryoshka on the nightstand. It must have been cleaned for there is neither blood nor dirt covering it. Then his eyes fall on the figure sleeping in the visitor’s chair. 

Q has his feet drawn up, half-tucked underneath him. There is a blanket covering his lower body. Maybe it used to cover more but slipped during the night. 

Morning, then. 

James cranes his neck to glance at the clock. Yes, 5.10am. 

“You shouldn’t be moving, 007.” 

“You should be sleeping in a bed,” James retorts only to be startled by how raspy his voice sounds. 

Q is apparently reading his mind, for he says, “Eighteen hours of sleep will do that to your vocal cords.”

Eighteen hours. He really is getting old. 

“How did you even get to the extraction point? I read your file – you had more bullets in you than an ammunition van in Sierra Leone.” Q sounds as if he can’t decide whether to be appalled or impressed. 

“Cars are a wonderful means of transportation. You of all people should be aware of that, Quartermaster,” he jokes and promptly succumbs to a coughing fit. _Smooth, James._

Q practically jumps out of his chair and returns a moment later with a glass of water. He does not place it on the nightstand but he offers it to James who accepts it gratefully. He downs it in three gulps, then makes a point to set it down on the bedside table himself. It aggravates his wounds and hurts a little, though it’s nothing he can’t handle. 

He takes the Matryoshka and presents it to Q, who is glaring at the doll like it personally insulted him. 

“I happened to pick something up on the way,” he smirks, even more so when Q’s eyes soften and he accepts the present. Their fingers don’t touch, though it’s close. 

“So you managed to lose both your earpieces, your radio, your transmitter, the prototype lock picking set and your wallet with all the fake IDs and credit cards, but you brought back a souvenir?”

“I couldn’t stand the thought of a lonely elephant.”

The Quartermaster sighs, exasperation colouring his tone. “If only you were to consider your equipment souvenirs as well, my job would be a lot easier and I might be able to make the budget once every other quarter.”

“Where would be the fun in that?”

Instead of replying, Q just shakes his head and glances out the window with an indecipherable look on his face. “I’m not telling you his name. I never agreed to that.”

“You chuckled. You were in favour of that plan.”

Q’s head whips around, eyes slightly widened in surprise. “You must have mistaken laughter for gunfire, 007,” he deflects. “Maybe you should have your hearing checked.”

“Ha-bloody-ha,” is James’ witty reply. 

“I’ll tell the doctors you’re awake. They’ll want to poke you with needles some more.”

“You are too kind to me, Q,” James drawls, but he doesn’t miss how the corner of Q’s lips turn upwards as he leaves the room, Matryoshka still in hand.

*~*~*

Q goes about his day as usual. Well, apart from being at work an hour earlier than is the norm, but he cannot fault 007 for waking up this early. 

He drinks tea, decodes a file from a foreign government that 004 sent from Chile at 3am, checks up on several projects that R&D is working on, signs a few forms that R hands him, then sets to restore Bond’s Walther to its former glory. It does not take much – a little bit of cleaning and polishing the casing which was damaged on mission as well as checking that the palm print encoder is still fully functional. 

He keeps busy, his thoughts always having something to focus on, since if he stops and thinks about the egg doll in his briefcase or the half-dead agent that medical brought in eighteen hours ago, he might get really, really bad ideas. 

Q is so immersed in his work that he only notices R is standing behind him and his computer station when she clears her throat. 

Good thing Q is not out in the field, or he would be worried about his reflexes. 

“Yes?”

“Go home, Q.”

“It’s barely –” he starts, yet a glance at the clock tells him any argument he wants to make will be invalid. 

“Yes, and also you haven’t left since 007 played moving target for those terrorists, which was almost 48 hours ago. You are going to save that file, log out of the system and go home where you will sleep in a real bed and not return until you’ve had at least eight hours of rest.”

“I’m needed back here in the morni-” 

“No,” she says sternly, shaking a strand of red hair out of her eyes. “I cleared it with M. You won’t be allowed back here until the afternoon and don’t even try overriding the security protocols because I personally informed the guards on duty tomorrow and no one’s going to let you in, you got me?”

Q groans, massaging his temple. He knows better than to argue with R. She is a resolute woman in her forties with sufficient practice reining in crazy co-workers from the four kids she has raised. “Fine,” he grits out. “Can I at least finish this line of code?”

She motions for him to do so, then remains behind him while he types. She knows him too well after almost three years as her superior and is perfectly aware that he would have just kept working for another hour if she left. Sometimes Q hates working for an Intelligence Agency – everyone’s a lot smarter than the average employee. 

R goes as far as shoving him out the door, giving him no alternative to taking the Tube home. 

Once there he makes it an hour and a half of cooking, cleaning up and checking his mail before pulling the Matryoshka out of his messenger bag. He opts to open her and arranges the dolls in a neat line diagonally in front of the elephant. 

When he found the doll with the equipment the medical officers took off 007, it was covered in blood and dirt and the sheer amount of crimson hit Q like a blow to the gut. The wood is still slightly darker in places, an eerie reminder of the doll’s past.

He can’t help reading something into the fact that James Bond lost everything but his gun and that daft souvenir that he promised him, come hell or high water. Or, well, bullets or explosions. 

Needless to say, this is not helping his crush at all.

*~*~*

Sherlock spies Janine immediately in the crowd in front of the pub she chose, her dark hair shining in the light emanating from the lamp post on the other side of the street. She smiles when she sees him, and Sherlock takes a deep breath. 

It has been almost four weeks since he agreed to drinks with her, and he would feel bad about it if she hadn’t cancelled equally often as he had. Apparently she still has the occasional television appearance from time to time to supplement her substantial funds. 

“Hello, Sherl,” she greets him, placing a kiss on his cheek. Of all people in the world, Janine must be the one he is most comfortable with, physically. He fathoms it has carried over from the time he pretended to be actively interested in her – there was quite a lot of touching, even if they never went further. 

“So, how are you?” she asks once Sherlock has procured the promised drinks and they are sitting inside for privacy. “You’re not looking too good.”

“I’m fine,” he insists, hoping it sounds less petulant than it did in his head. 

“How’s John? And Mary?”

Sherlock’s throat is suddenly dry and he has to swallow thickly before giving a reply that will seem off-handed. “Sleep-deprived. Nothing out of the ordinary when there is a child in the vicinity with irrational urges to cry at the oddest hours. How was your Valentine’s Day?” he adds, since Janine’s smile is much too knowing for him to allow her to engage in this topic of conversation. 

“Can’t you tell?” she challenges, leaning back in her chair and spreading her hands. 

Oh yes, of course – the last time Janine had lugged him to a drinking establishment, he had deduced a man with enormous sexual prowess, and Janine had promptly made it her mission to find out first-hand if his assessment was true. The man, a fairly successful stock broker, had then insisted on going on a date, if the small fragment of information that Sherlock saved to memory serves him right. 

He lets his eyes take in all the small details, associations exploding in his mind until he can feel the corners of his mouth twitch. 

“He brought you flowers when he picked you up, took you to an expensive restaurant… something happened – I’m guessing to ask you to meet his parents, judging by the way he wore his pocket square in the picture you showed me – and then he invited you over to his place.”

“Brilliant as always, Sherl,” Janine confirms with a grin before leaning forward and lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I’m telling you, he used to be in the army, and he’s still fit. What a night!” 

Her Irish roots are more audible now that she is teasing, Sherlock notes, while decidedly not answering. 

“Aw, don’t be like that, Sherl! You had your chance, now you have to hear about this.”

“Please, spare me the graphic details.”

Obviously this only causes Janine’s smile to turn sultry. “You deduced it first, and blimey, were you ever right. The things he can do with his hands… must be something they teach soldiers…” 

She trails off dreamily while Sherlock is still battling the associations her account evokes in his mind. Army always leads his thoughts to John, and given the context of Janine’s references, his imagination is becoming rather unsavoury at the moment. 

Janine, meanwhile, has resumed her threat and is currently describing something or other. Sherlock does not very much care for her relationship with the stock broker, so why bother listening when it will all be deleted later anyhow?

“Oh, Sherl.” A sigh wins back his attention. Janine’s gaze is warm when he meets it. “We need to find you someone, too. You’re awfully lonely, and pale. I’m getting worried.”

“No need. I’m not lonely. I have my cases, and John to help me.”

“But what if his baby needs more attention? What if he doesn’t have the time anymore to run about London with you? People have more than one friend, you know.”

Sherlock grits his teeth. “I don’t need another friend.”

*~*~*

It is only a few days after R ushered Q out of Six when he receives the notification that 007 has checked himself out of medical, still not fully healed. 

This does not raise any red flags since it is a common occurrence. There seems to be a law against James Bond staying in a hospital bed until his physician deems him ready to leave. Q is not worried – he just wants to keep tabs on the agent… for professional reasons, of course. After all it is Bond and Q’s job to deal with Jim Moriarty and if Bond’s health were to suffer because he is an arrogant prick who thinks painkillers are for lesser humans, so be it. 

Q grants himself one moment of selfish hope that Bond decides to break into his flat again and occupy the sofa, only one moment before he shakes his head and goes back to the mutating algorithm he is programming. 

That doesn’t mean he is any less annoyed when he comes home and actually finds the agent on his sofa, Q’s cat sleeping between his feet and hogging some of the blankets that Bond definitely stole from Q’s bedroom. 

Fine, ‘annoyed’ might be a tad strong. Parts annoyed, parts relieved that he gets the chance to keep an eye on 007 during his recovery. And parts incredibly confused as to why a man of Bond’s calibre and reputation would chose Q’s flat as a reprieve (for there is no other explanation for the frequent visits in the past weeks).

Q doesn’t wake Bond. He cooks and the smell of vegetable soup apparently is enough to rouse 007 on his own. Q hands him a bowl without comment for which Bond seems grateful. The agent is still there the next morning, wearing the same pants and shirt, and Q’s cat has apparently decided that sleeping with James Bond on a narrow sofa is preferable to sleeping in a large bed with Q – not that Q can fault Zed. He would do the same, after all. 

A crisis with 003 calls Q to work early and he doesn’t return until late to find a note on the fridge informing him that there is dinner ready to reheat. The microwave’s _ding_ does not manage to wake Bond on the sofa who looks miles better than when Q saw him in medical, yet the fact that 007 does not snap upright within seconds of Q’s return home does give him pause. 

Enough so that when morning rolls around, Q steps closer to the sleeping form on his sofa. 

Zed is eating this time and apparently Bond has found a change of clothes somewhere. A glance underneath the furniture reveals a gym bag and that discovery in turn allows rather unsavoury thoughts to fill Q’s imagination… Because if James is so fond of using his place as a recovery centre, why not move a few clothes here permanently? Q has enough space in his cupboard – it is not filled to the brim with cardigans, no matter what R and the rest of Q Branch think and start betting pools about. 

Belatedly Q realises he is still kneeling in front of 007 on the sofa. It puts him on eye level with Bond’s face, features evened out in sleep, his hair for a change just a step short of pristine. It looks soft. 

_No, that is not a thought worth pursuing_ , Q chides himself, yet he remains on the floor, looking closer at the blond strands that are not even streaked with grey yet. 

Before he can stop himself, Q is reaching out a hand, fingers stretching in anticipation. 

Of course that is the moment Bond’s secret agent reflexes kick in and a strong hand closes around his wrist from one second to the next. James only has one eye open, looking at him calmly as if waiting for his next move. 

Q swallows, retracts his hand. He mumbles an apology and climbs to his feet, intending to flee into the kitchen and put the kettle on. 

A creaking floorboard makes him spin around on his heels and suddenly James is there, staring down at him intently. Q’s mouth goes dry at the intensity of those blue eyes. 

The agent takes one step forward and Q instinctively takes one back, though that puts him against the wall next to the kitchen counter. Another step and James is inside his personal space, crowding him against the wall. All Q can hear is the blood rushing in his veins because his heart is beating in his throat at the moment. 

James brings his right arm up, fingertips brushing Q’s jaw and throat. It is merely the ghost of a touch, though it sends jolts of electricity through every cell of Q’s body. He doesn’t have the time nor the presence of mind to realise James Bond is leaning down to kiss him before it happens and a surprisingly soft pair of lips find his own. 

Q melts, there is no other word for it, and he will deny it until his dying day but he actually whimpers when the tip of a tongue licks across his lower lip. It is enough to grant James access, and the entire world narrows down to the movement of James’ mouth against his own. It is slow but filled with such intensity that one could have cut it with a knife. 

When Bond eventually draws back, Q is left gasping with wobbly knees and feeling like his body is on fire. 

Bond doesn’t say anything. He smiles – genuinely smiles, not merely smirks – then walks towards the front door where he picks up his jacket and sends one last wink Q’s way before leaving. 

Only when the door clicks shut and the security measures slot into place does Q allow his legs to give out and slides to the floor, gulping in large quantities of air. 

What the hell just happened?

*~*~*

The days are all the same. Wake up to a crying infant, feed her, change her, and only then cook breakfast for herself. Sometimes Mary takes Elisabeth out first thing in the morning, strolling through a nearby park, other times she waits until shortly before lunch. 

The afternoon is more of the same. Other parents coo over her child and Mary puts on an overly sweet smile and coos right back at the adult’s children, if only to escape their attention sooner rather than later. 

Two weeks after Valentine’s Day and Mary is sure she is losing her mind to the stifling monotony of motherhood. She really did not think it through when she did not renew her contraceptive implant, so certain that a child would solve her problems. 

John at least has his work and last weekend he helped Sherlock solve some petty crime that proved complex enough to baffle Lestrade yet barely managed to entertain Sherlock for an entire day. 

It is a cold Tuesday in February and the remaining days of the week, the month, the next several months stretch out in front of her like an endless sea of boredom. In a spur-of-the-moment decision she produces her phone and types in a number she memorised years ago. 

“What a surprise,” is how Moriarty answers the call. At least he picked up the phone, which Mary deems a good sign. 

“When can I leave?” she snaps and hears the criminal chuckle at the other end of the line. 

“What, motherhood not suiting you?”

“What do you think?” she snaps, glaring down at Elisabeth’s sleeping form in the pushchair. 

“Oh my, what a mood Mummy is in,” Moriarty teases, sounding far too amused by all of this. “Patience, Mary. It won’t be long now. Wait for my call.”

The dial tone rings, obnoxious and loud as if taunting Mary that she cannot simply up and leave whenever she pleases. Let John take care of his alleged daughter. Despite his lack of warmth towards herself, he is a good father to Elisabeth. He can team up with uncle Sherlock and let Mary return to the life she knows and enjoys. Her cover has been blown anyway. 

‘It won’t be long’, Moriarty said. Knowing the man that can mean anything from a few days to several weeks and Mary has no way of being sure which end of the spectrum this situation lies. 

_Patience._ Well, Mary has no other choice but to listen. 

She resists the urge to throw her phone into the pond or at one of the annoying animals loitering around and instead jams it back into her pocket. 

As if on cue, Elisabeth wakes up and starts to cry. All Mary wants to do is run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have slash, yes! And a little teaser – chapter 7 will focus on Mary’s back story…
> 
> Off-topic: I just completed a post-Age of Ultron fix-it, [The Path I Started](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3808228/chapters/8485798), in case any of you are also fans of Marvel and in the mood for 42k of slow build Steve/Tony :)


	6. Bring out the Clowns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In March 2014, three men break out of Brixton Prison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I completely forgot to update on Tuesday – my sincerest apologies! So there will only be one update this week.
> 
> In other news, we have now officially reached the “Bad Guys Closing In” part of this story… *wrings-her-hands-excitedly*

**_May 2014_**

“Where’s Lestrade?” is the first thing out of Jones’ mouth when Sally enters the control room they have set up in the bank. 

There are a few monitors showing that everything is going according to plan – the Waters Gang has emptied the vault and is making their way to the exit where their car is waiting, still completely oblivious to the trap Scotland Yard has sprung. 

“Acute personal emergency,” Sally replies in a tone that brooks no argument. “How long?” When Jones doesn’t answer, Sally presses on. “How long?”

“Maybe three minutes.”

In the end it is only two and a half, but it doesn’t matter. They have all exits covered in multiple layers; their contingency plans have contingency plans – a perfect example of meticulous plotting on Lestrade’s part for which he cannot claim credit. 

At least Sally is here to make sure everything goes as intended. 

The second the men with the clown masks realise they have been set up they open fire, trying to blow themselves out of the bank. It looks like it might work, too – if it weren’t for the marksmen and the roadblocks. 

Sally feels an immense rush of satisfaction as she slaps cuffs on the clown with the white-grey hair. 

“Remove his mask,” she orders an officer and in that moment the entire department seems to hold their breath. 

All the louder is the gasp when the mask comes off and reveals that the man is not, in fact, the head of the Waters family. 

“Check the others!” Sally demands but it becomes a pattern. Three clowns, three men – just not the three men they thought were behind it all. 

That is why the Waters Family always walked free – they have been innocent this entire time. These criminals are not the Waters Gang at all.

Sally heaves a sigh and is maybe a tad rougher when she pushes her clown’s head down to get him into the police car.

*~*~*

**_Ten months later – March 2015_ **

The crime scene is pretty much self-evident and by the time Sally and Lestrade return to the detective’s car from an interview with the victim’s sister, they can identify the husband’s mistress as the murderer. 

Said mistress proves a hard nut to crack, yet Lestrade and Sally are a great team in the interrogation room and an hour later she is signing her confession. 

“You know how most days aren’t good days?” Lestrade comments with a grin as he flips the file closed. He doesn’t finish his thought though Sally knows exactly what he means. 

He opens his mouth to say something else but the ringing of Sally’s phone interrupts him. 

“Sergeant Sally Donovan speaking.”

“Hello, this is Tegar Uwais speaking, director of Brixton Prison. We have a situation.”

Sally’s face falls and Lestrade undoubtedly notices, judging by how quiet he goes. She listens to the director’s explanation and every hope for an early end of her day flies out the window. 

“What is it?” the detective asks as soon as Sally has hung up. 

“The Clown Gang – they escaped.”

*~*~*

It doesn’t take long for them to be on the way to Brixton Prison and thanks to Lestrade’s blaring siren they are standing in front of the brick building twenty minutes later. 

Uwais presents them with everything they have so far, which isn’t much: the three “clowns”, Arthur Somerton, Diego Hallard, and Holič Kolář, have been caught on camera shortly before lunch yet they vanish from one moment to the next. 

Three guards were found in a supply closet, all of them bound and gagged and missing their clothes. 

“So they overpowered the guards and just walked out of the prison,” Sally sums up. 

“They would have needed help – someone to tamper with the surveillance cameras,” Greg adds. “Let’s start with the guards.”

Uwais nods his assent and goes to make a call. Lestrade’s hand twitches to his pocket where he usually keeps his phone and Sally can barely contain her eye-roll. 

“You really wanna call him in, boss?”

The detective has the decency to look abashed. “We’ll solve this faster with him. Besides, he owes me from last time.”

The memory makes Sally’s lips twitch. She gives her boss a long-suffering shrug though coupled with an almost fond look, so he doesn’t hesitate and goes for his phone. 

Lestrade is still walking a fine line with involving Holmes, yet something must have happened since the Police Chief has been less reluctant to allow Holmes on crime scenes. Sally has a few theories as to who might have swayed the man, though nothing concrete and she knows better than to dig deeper. 

She has made her peace with Holmes’ continued presence at crime scenes, really. She doesn’t need to like it and as long as he remains useful she won’t be able to do anything anyway. 

It’s not guilt over wrongly accusing the bloke of murder. It’s not. She did what she thought was right and her colleague Thorsten saw it, too, though was too shy to speak up himself. So. Not guilt.

*~*~*

When Holmes arrives, he has Watson with him. 

Sally is infinitely glad she met John Watson when Phillip’s marriage was still on shaky feet – dating that man’s got to be exhausting. To think he has a wife and daughter at home, but he’s still running after Holmes every chance he gets… 

Such a lack of respect sets Sally’s teeth on edge. Maybe this is why her attitude towards Holmes has cooled down from loathing to reluctant tolerance – because most of her negative thoughts are reserved for Watson at the moment. 

“So, let’s hear it, then,” she commands once the detective and his blogger have finished their tour of the relevant (and a few more) locations.

“The breakout was perfectly timed and organised and they had outside help,” Holmes supplies immediately. He must be really happy with the case to forgo his usual ‘your heads must be so boring’ glare. 

“We figured as much,” Greg acknowledges. “Anything more detailed?”

Sherlock gives a long-suffering sigh. “Only that someone smuggled guns into the prison, disabled the surveillance, and supplied a getaway car. Also, the gang built the tools they needed to open several of the doors in the metal shop.”

“No one was shot,” Lestrade protests. “They probably got guns outside –”

“There was a clip of ammunition wedged behind one shelf in the supply closet,” Holmes interrupts, and Sally has a hard time stifling a groan because why can’t their own people find things like that? “I take it your men figured they would leave thoroughness to the next cleaning lady?”

Lestrade grimaces, yet doesn’t rise to the bait. “Any guess which model of gun?”

“A Smith and Wesson nine millimetre semi-automatic,” Holmes shoots back immediately, his tone oozing smugness. Greg does not ask how Sherlock knows. 

“If you’ve got it all figured out,” Sally sneers, “then why don’t you tell us who helped them?”

Holmes takes a moment to regard her, his stare cool and calculating. Sally has long since made peace with the fact that she cannot hide anything from the freak, so she does not shift, does not cross her arms, just meets his gaze head on. Behind Sherlock’s shoulder, John’s hand twitches, though Sally cannot tell if he is annoyed with her for doubting his best friend, or with Sherlock for drawing the moment out. 

“Moriarty.”

“What?” Greg barks after a beat of shocked silence. 

“There aren’t that many people who can hack into Brixton’s system, or criminal masterminds who could orchestrate such a prison break, Lestrade. That alone should be obvious, yet if you add the fact that no money the Clowns Gang stole has ever been found and that they always seemed to know when Scotland Yard was closing in…” Sherlock trails off, shaking his head. “And a myriad of other details your brains will not have even picked up on, let alone solved, like the thugs’ shaving cream – then it’s really quite obvious, isn’t it?”

“Brilliant,” Watson mutters under his breath, and Sally watches for the predictable upward twitch of Holmes’ lips. 

It comes a moment later, accompanied by Holmes dismissing it with, “I’m just actually paying attention,” while the pleased glint in his eyes tells another story entirely. 

“So where do I send my officers?” Lestrade interrupts, raising his voice a little to draw the two men’s attention. “Or have you got their safe house also figured out?”

At that, Sherlock purses his lips. “No. But they will have changed cars, something more bulky and of a different colour than the incredibly uninventive black BMW they entered when they got out. Try checking for Range Rovers and Land Rovers first. They won’t need supplies; Moriarty will have prepared everything. Give me all personnel files.”

“You thinking you can find a mole?” Lestrade asks before Sally has a chance to. She would not have sounded more dubious than the DI, the question more rhetorical than anything. 

“‛Course he can,” Watson replies nonetheless. Holmes just smiles. 

Lestrade heaves a sigh and nods at Sally. She leaves for Uwais’ office without complaining.

*~*~*

By the time Sherlock has identified the prison guard who smuggled the firearms into the supply closet, the woman in question is lying in a pool of her own blood in her small, cramped flat. 

“Guess your theory was right,” John comments dryly, walking around the corpse but not touching anything. There is a hole in her forehead. Her eyes are open – she probably knew the killer, thought him or her to be on the same page. 

Lestrade is right behind them and curses when he walks through the door and sees the crime scene. “Anything?”

“Heavy smoker, became a mole for the money. Not for herself, for a family member.” 

Sherlock hears Lestrade inhale, undoubtedly about to ask how he knew, so he simply points towards the pictures standing in front of the books lining the shelves of the living room. They show their victim with her father, who lost a lot of weight in between the times the pictures were taken. Something terminal, costly. Maybe the money was for a black-market transplant, though Sherlock does not really care. 

“I’ll be in touch,” he mumbles, already on his way out of the flat. He can practically _see_ John’s apologetic glance at the detective before he follows Sherlock out of the building, into a cab and back to Baker Street. 

John helps him with his crime wall, for the first time in which they have known each other. 

John never offered before, and Sherlock never asked him to, because most of his wall-building happened at four o’clock in the morning when John was usually fast asleep in the bedroom upstairs like self-proclaimed ‘normal people’. 

Today, however, John is not, he’s _here_ , back in Baker Street, and something in Sherlock’s chest clenches so hard it hurts. He quickly stifles the sensation, refocusing his concentration on the information in front of him, ignoring the way John’s hands move as they pin pieces onto the wall. Janine’s voice echoes in his mind, unbidden.

_The things he can do with his hands… must be something they teach soldiers._

Sherlock shuts everything out. 

When he resurfaces, John is dozing in his chair and there is a cold cup of tea on the table near Sherlock. 

“Wake up, John,” he orders, unable to keep his eyes off the man who snaps to attention immediately, hands twitching for his gun even before he is fully conscious. 

“’s the game back on again?” John’s voice is sleep-rough and perfect. 

“The game was never over, John.”

“Excuse me if I can’t switch off basic human needs like sleep,” he grumbles, though for a man in his forties who only got three hours of it, he sounds entirely too awake. 

The statement was rhetorical, so Sherlock does not react. He throws John his jacket, which he catches before it hits his face. 

“Let’s go.”

*~*~*

Q is making another cup of tea in the kitchenette of Q Branch when his phone chimes with a text. 

_Need all information you can find on Arthur Somerton, Diego Hallard & Holič Kolář. Suspected ties to Moriarty. – SH_

He spends a moment musing over whether signing texts with one’s initials is pretentious or practical, then picks up his Earl Grey and sets to find out who the names refer to. 

_Huh._ Prison break, right here in London, all surveillance disabled. Q would be impressed if he hadn’t hacked more complicated networks when he was 15. 

Still, the three men are in the winds and if they have ties to Moriarty, it means finding them falls into Q’s job description at the moment. So he takes a sip of his tea, extracts the video footage from the heist during which the Clown Gang was arrested and recalibrates his motion-tracking algorithm. The corresponding program is one of Q’s own design – inspired by Peter Jackson of all people and his motion-capture technique. It’s officially still in beta; unofficially, Q just doesn’t want to share it with Interpol. 

Q feeds the data of his three subjects into the program, then reactivates a Korean virus he disabled last week. Ten minutes later, the beginnings of a very large botnet is helping his program comb through the entire CIA database and Q is borrowing cloud computing space from Amazon, Oracle, and Google in order to provide Sherlock with results within the next twelve hours instead of three weeks. 

Once everything is running, Q switches to the surveillance feed of the MI6 gym, just for a moment. 007 – or should he be saying James? – is on the treadmill, has been for half an hour according to the footage. 

It was M who insisted on Bond having to requalify if he wants to continue chasing Moriarty, so the day after James kissed Q the agent is obviously back at work. Judging by the height of his pulse and the amount of sweat Q can make out through the CCTV, James is already tiring. 

Well, he is – Q mentally cringes when he does not even need to calculate – 44, fifteen years older than Q himself. This is probably an age gap that society would frown upon… 

_If_ they were together. Which they are not, Q mentally chides himself. 

But who can fault him for being confused? It seems to be one of 007’s special skills to make a partner feel like the centre of his universe. Q has seen it happen with marks James seduced. Bloody hell, he has even heard it first-hand from Eve who fell into the proverbial honeytrap in Macau after taking a razor to Bond’s skin (which was actually more erotic than it sounds, according to Eve’s tequila-infused confessions). 

Q knows better than to think of himself as different from those who came before him, literally and figuratively. 

“Didn’t know you liked playing nurse to daft Double-ohs.”

R’s mirthful voice startles Q out of his thoughts. When he glances at her, she is smirking, though her eyes are equally drawn to the screen where James has passed on to stretching a bit on his way to the weights. 

Q ignores her remark. “What can I do for you?”

“This is your thirty minute warning for the meeting with M and Mr Holmes. So make sure all your projects are at a good stopping point until then.”

“Thank you,” Q says, meaning it. He sometimes wonders if getting Q to meetings on time is more challenging a task than raising children. It did take R about two months to figure out how to ensure Q’s reply to appointments would not be “Do not disturb me until this subroutine is finished.”

The meeting itself is uneventful, especially since Mycroft seems unsurprised by his brothers’ suspicions as to the Clown Gang. 

Back at his desk, Q checks on his program and is happy to find it has spat out two results already. Once he has analysed the found footage and started a file with an incorporated chronological timeline, he spares another glance for the gym – only to find M himself walking off, leaving behind a rather pensive-looking Bond. 

Bond lingers for half a minute, then disappears into the showers (where even MI6 has not installed cameras). Q catches him exiting the gym, showered, shaved and clad in one of his army of suits a tad later.

Q allows himself to appreciate the agent, his eyes taking in the black-and-white image of his broad chest and strong shoulders, hidden by expensive fabrics. When his eyes return to Bond’s face, the man is looking right at him. 

Q startles, taking a step back from his computer. On screen, James grins and walks off camera. Q shuts the tab, grateful that no one is able to see the blush spreading down his neck.

*~*~*

James suppresses a groan as he moves into his last stretching position, his body twisted on the ground, cushioned only by the thin workout mat. 

Nothing makes you feel your age than failing to do stretches as effectively as you did five years ago. Requalifying is going to be a royal pain in the arse. 

Maybe he should have just bled out. Would have saved him the trouble. 

The sound of the door opening alerts him to another presence in the room. The person does not announce themselves, which means it is either Tanner or M who know how honed James’ reflexes are. 

“Sir,” he greets, his voice almost muffled by the position he is in. It takes two seconds until he is untangled and vertical again. 

“007,” M greets, his hands in the pocket of his bespoke trousers. “Someone’s getting old.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” James bends down to pick up his water. 

Where the old M, _his_ M, would have scoffed and scolded him for his tone, this M merely chuckles. “Tell me something, James – have you ever thought about retirement?”

James’ eyes snap up from his water bottle. He does not say anything. He does not have anything to say to that. 

“Not right now, obviously,” M amends, “but once this Moriarty business has been resolved.”

James forces his lips into a smirk. “I wouldn’t want to bankrupt the agency with my pension.”

“It is so rare that we send a Double-oh into retirement that I am certain we can afford it,” M retorts immediately. 

James wants to laugh in his face, because what makes that man think James is going to be any different? 

M’s expression does not waver, yet something must have tipped him off as to James’ musings, for he gives him a soft smile. “I’d like to see you to retirement. I think it is what my predecessor would have wished for you. Think about it.”

He walks off, and James can but blink after him. 

Retirement. 

The thought alone is laughable. What is James even supposed to do after MI6? Good thing M knows him better than to offer him a desk job… James tries to imagine himself in a flat somewhere, sleeping eight hours every night, the most dangerous thing all day being the operation of the stove or the stapler at the office – no, it does not compute. James cannot even come up with such a mental image. 

He turns on his heels and heads for the showers. Once he is sweat-free and dressed, he exits the gym, checking the hallway for doors and cameras even though he could draw MI6’s blueprints in his sleep. 

A thought strikes him. He looks up at the nearest camera and grins. He might never learn if he actually caught Q looking, but the thought is enough to put a spring in James’ step on his way to the employee garage.

*~*~*

It is eight hours and seven now refuted theories later that Sherlock’s phone buzzes with a text while they are walking back to the street to catch a cab. 

_Really, Sherlock, I expected more from you._

He freezes for a moment as his adrenaline levels spike. The number is labelled as ‘unknown’ – and certainly untraceable – but it cannot be anyone other than Moriarty. Sherlock does not give him the satisfaction of looking around in an attempt to deduce whether Moriarty is using public CCTV cameras or has installed his own. 

The messages continue; short, mocking jibs at Sherlock’s abilities. He never reacts physically. 

“Why are you checking your phone so often? You get the homeless network on board when I wasn’t looking?” John asks when Sherlock’s ninth theory falls through around 8pm and Moriarty is laughing at him via text. 

“Waiting for an update from Q,” Sherlock says. 

It is not a lie, given that he is waiting for whatever the Quartermaster can unearth, yet while Moriarty’s texts are heralded only by a vibration of his phone, Sherlock programmed Q’s number to give off a loud alert even when the phone is switched to mute. 

“When did you write him? _How_ did you write him? I doubt the Quartermaster of MI6 is in the phone book.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock says with a dismissive hand gesture. “He hacked my phone and programmed it in.”

The ease with which the agent is invading people’s privacy seems to give John pause. Yet before he can protest or whatever his useless moral principles are telling him to do, Sherlock’s phone beeps. 

Not vibrates, _beeps_. 

“He sent something,” Sherlock explains, going through the files as quickly as his small screen allows him after decrypting them. It might be time to get himself a tablet. Maybe Q would build him one. Sherlock bets it would piss off Mycroft… which is why Q probably would not do it – from all Sherlock has gathered, Q seems loyal to a fault, his first priority being not MI6 or even England, but Mycroft. A recipe for disaster. 

Q’s package does not contain much of use except a few grainy pictures of the members of the Clown Gang that place them in the vicinity of several banks they later robbed, as well as abroad in Europe several times. 

“Why didn’t he send more photos?” John asks and Sherlock indulges him. 

“There aren’t more. As part of Moriarty’s network, every trace of them has probably been erased. Even these pictures never show their faces clearly, but Q said he would program a special algorithm to find their bodies – apparently not even Moriarty or whoever does his hacking did that. We wouldn’t have any material, if that were the case.”

John has clearly lost track of Sherlock’s elaboration. He flips through the files, his lips pursed. “Well, they’re bloody usele- hang on.”

“What?” 

John has gone back to a picture of Holič Kolář, the Czech member of the Clowns. Only his cheek is visible, but he must have been in some sort of club for he is only wearing a sleeveless undershirt that exposes his bulky, tattooed left arm. 

When Sherlock glances back at his friend, John has blanched and is gaping at the picture. 

“What?” he presses, beginning to feel alarmed by John’s demeanour. 

“That – that man. I saw him – no, I mean I remember the tattoo,” John stammers. “It was… the day you jumped.”

Sherlock surges forward, gripping John’s shoulders and turning him to face him. “Where?”

“He was the handyman – he fixed – Mrs Hudson was there –”

Sherlock lets go of John’s shoulders as realisation strikes him like lightning. 

“One of the gunmen - Holič Kolář was one of Moriarty’s gunmen.” 

Voicing the thought triggers his mind, which spirals from there, drowning Sherlock with memories, associations, pieces of the puzzle because if one of the clowns was around three years ago, what about the rest? 

“The wifi,” he gasps. “The Czech one was Kolář’s, the Russian Dyachenko’s –”

“What the hell are you on about?” John interrupts, his tone urgent enough to reach Sherlock’s mind. Then again, John always does. 

His hands freeze in mid-air as he meets John’s eyes. “Remember the camera, the one someone planted at Baker Street?” John nods. “I found it because of the wifi signals near our flat. Their names were in different languages, five of them: Russian – that was Dyachenko, one of the four assassins Mycroft told you about. The Albanian was Sulejmani’s –”

“Who died,” John supplies.

“Yes! The Estonian was the other’s, and the Czech network was Kolář’s.”

John’s eyes are wide. “What about the last one? You said there were five.”

“Spanish.”

They both fit the missing piece together at the same moment, understanding spreading across John’s face like wildfire, lighting it up and Sherlock wishes he could kiss him. 

“Diego Hallard!” John whispers in awe, and Sherlock’s mind takes over again, all fantasies of lips and body heat gone. 

“They didn’t move to Baker Street because of the code – they moved because Moriarty ordered them to.”

“And the other clown’s the third gunman?”

Sherlock shakes his head, flipping to another picture showing the gang leader’s dark figure in the background of a family holiday picture in Chicago and indicating the time stamp. “Arthur Somerton wasn’t in London two years ago.”

“So there’s another member?” John suggests the exact same moment the implications unfold in Sherlock’s mind. 

“Yes!” he shouts, jumping on the spot from the serotonin his brain is releasing into his bloodstream. “That’s why they never got caught! There’s a fourth clown who knows what the police is up to, someone who has access to sensitive information, someone who Moriarty swayed to his side long ago – what are you doing?” Sherlock asks when he notices John is typing on his phone. 

“Calling Greg – he needs to know.”

Sherlock grabs the phone and holds it out of John’s reach when he attempts to get it back, his reflexes still incredibly fast even though Sherlock’s are faster right now. 

“This is far deeper than we thought, John. We cannot tell Lestrade, especially not through phones – he won’t be able to pretend he doesn’t know if we need him to.”

“Well, what’d you suggest we do then?” John challenges, glaring at Sherlock’s long arms which are holding the device out of John’s range of motion. 

“I need to think. Go away.”

It comes out harsher than Sherlock meant it. John’s expression shuts down immediately and Sherlock almost regrets not bothering with social notions of courtesy. Almost. 

“You can drop me off at home on your way back to Baker Street, then.” 

_Home._ Home referring to another place that is not 221B. It still sends a spike of pain through Sherlock’s chest, no matter how often John makes comments to that effect. 

“Fine,” Sherlock gripes, looking for the nearest taxi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Diego Hallard is actually called Jaume Gauss according to canon, which I only learnt after I wrote half of this chapter. I liked my name better, though :)
> 
> Thorsten is Pink Shirt, for anyone one who is familiar with that theory (see these posts by finalproblem [x](http://finalproblem.tumblr.com/post/16962160223/loose-threads), [x](http://finalproblem.tumblr.com/post/17180166804/he-was-always-there-and-usually-focused-on), [x](http://finalproblem.tumblr.com/post/17036540069/sherlock-murder-by-remote-control-he-could-be))


	7. From the Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Names don’t matter, usually, not for her. She has changed hers almost as often as she does hairstyles. At the moment it is Valeska, after this mission it will be something else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a Mary-only chapter, suited both to those of you who dislike her and to those who do like her (like me).

**_Minsk, January 2010_**

Berwick is not his real name. Berry might be, she muses, but Berwick definitely is not. He is related to the Waters family, a second cousin and son of the head of the Serbian branch of their organisation. People like him never use their real names.

Not that it matters. Names don’t, usually, not for her. She has changed hers almost as often as she has hairstyles. At the moment it’s Valeska, after this mission it will be something else. 

There is one name that does matter, however – Combustion, also known as Delta-Tetrahydrocannabinol. Quite the mouthful. Her cover identity is a pretty English major from Minsk University who, while quite good at analysing poetry, cannot even spell psychedelic. 

Or at least that is what Berry Berwick thinks, what he is supposed to think, so that he won’t hesitate to talk about his family’s dealings with below-the-radar governmental research in psychochemical warfare, which he is in charge of. 

“It’s almost finished,” Berry tells her animatedly in Belarusian, his eyes alight with excitement. He reminds her of a puppy sometimes, the way he craves her attention. Has the intelligence of one, too. “Not long now – I’ll show you soon.”

She laughs, light and amused. “It’ll all go over my head, darling.” 

Her Belarusian is impeccable. No one has doubted her before and if that should ever happen, Berry won’t be the one to sow the suspicion. 

That night, after she wishes him goodnight with a soft kiss, she detours on her way back to her apartment. Valeska reads the Guardian every day, the international edition. Even has a subscription. Berry thinks it’s because she is a liberal democrat, full of idealistic societal notions, but in truth she only reads it for the personals. More exactly, those personals in font size 12.

Her informant is already there, hidden in the shadows of the small alley. 

“How soon?” he asks. She likes him better than the last one, who always insisted on senseless small talk. 

“Maybe a week; two at most.” 

The man nods. He is unremarkable, with a face that immediately slips your mind after you see it. His body is unnoticeably tenser than usual. Or would be, to anyone less trained than her. 

“We’ll wait for your signal,” he concludes, his tone bearing a finality that puts an end to their exchange.

She nods and turns to leave, but something irks her. The last sentence was redundant – the plan has been in place for weeks. She has never forgotten anything, so why remind her now? 

She draws her hidden gun the exact moment one of the shadows moves. 

There is no need to utter a threat. Whoever managed to infiltrate this meetup knows exactly how well she can shoot. Another mark, a brilliant engineer but also an epic geek, once compared her to Hawkeye. 

“Hi,” the shadow says, his voice an annoying sing-song and drawing out the “i”. He takes another step and now she can make out his silhouette. He isn’t overly tall, but lean and handsome, but that might just be the suit. Designer wear tailored to fit its wearer often has that effect. 

His eyes unsettle her, however. They look innocent, yet in a way that is almost always intended. People with innocent eyes like these usually are anything but. 

When she remains silent, the man takes another step. His hands are in his trouser pockets, giving him an air of casual indifference. 

“Not a chatty one? Thought you CIA-types just luuuurve to talk.”

Only yearlong training keeps her from flinching. _How the hell does he know?_

“Oh, please,” the man replies as if he read her mind. “Our little Berry’s not really a great catch, is he? Just between me and you,” he continues, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’d have to pay me too to touch that. But I guess his family connections do add a certain appeal…” He trails off, leering at her. 

She succumbs and asks, “What do you want?”

“It’s not about what I want.”

“Your…” she begins, thinking. “Your employer, then?”

“Oh, you’re good!” he cheers, so loose and happy that no one would suspect he is having a gun aimed at him. “I see why they sent you. Nice job in China last year, by the way. But aren’t all the wet jobs getting old?”

There have been exactly two moments in her life in which she panicked. This is shaping up to be a third. 

The man’s shoulders slump a bit. “Alright, alright, all work and no play, jeez.” He holds up his hands, palms angled towards her. “Let’s pretend little Berry shows you Combustion and you succeed in killing everyone and destroying it. What then? Another identity? Another brainless ape who’s wrapped around your little finger after two minutes? Noooo, I don’t think so,” he answers immediately, drawing out the ‘no’ in a way that would have been comical in another situation. His grin is cold as ice. “They’ll terminate you before that.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Why?”

“I think you know.”

He must see the moment she understands reflected in her aura on some ethereal plane of existence, since her expression remains as stoic as before. But his grin widens, eyes filling with glee. 

“No loose ends. Do you want that?”

She doesn’t dignify daft questions with self-evident responses, but then again he does not seem to have expected an answer. 

“Of course not. Which is where I come in.” He glances at his right hand and thumbs something on his ring finger. “You proceed as planned, but don’t destroy the files. Give them to me and I’ll get you out.”

“And after that?”

“I might have more jobs for you.”

“I don’t even know your name,” she objects, though mostly to buy herself more time. 

He winks at her. “As if you care about names.”

The bastard is good. Damn good. And definitely a criminal. She does a quick mental rundown of her options: One – deny him, finish the job, take the risk of termination. She could get out on her own, but it is going to be a challenge. Well, not the getting out part, but the staying alive part. She has terminated her fair share of rogue officers. Not ideal. Two – deny him, finish the job, go rogue. See above. Three – pretend to say yes, sell him to the CIA and prove her loyalty. Might work, but the man seems too clever to fall for any ploy she might come up with. Four – say yes and switch sides. 

“Come on, Natalia,” he whines, literally _whines_ , “I have plans for Christmas.”

It takes a moment for the name to register. It has been years since anyone has ever used her real name. She thought no one was left alive to remember it. 

“How –” she starts, but he interrupts her. 

“Pressure points. Every person has one, even a top level CIA secretary.” 

She lowers her gun.

*~*~*

The mission goes off without a hitch. 

Berry is excited when he brings her to the research facility, bouncing around her like the human-sized puppy that he is. How his family entrusted him to lead such a project is beyond her. Maybe he behaves less like a teenager when she isn’t around. Maybe the projects his brother handles are even more delicate, who knows.

She kills every person in the building, except for Berry, whom she transports back to his apartment with the files her new boss requested. 

She uses the drug on him, now that it has been proven to work. He will wake up covered in blood next to a surgically altered female corpse (courtesy of the man from the shadows) posing as Valeria. Berry will go to prison for a long time, even though he will have no recollection whatsoever of the murder. 

“Your first job,” her new boss tells her at their meetup when handing over a manila envelope. 

He takes the research notes. She kills the people who paid him for them. He calls them ‘clients’, not ‘employers’. 

“I’ll be in touch,” he says when she contacts him from a burner phone. “Be at the airport next Tuesday. Look for David.”

He hangs up before she can ask who the heck David is.

*~*~*

She notices the guy looking at her. She is at a café at Minsk National Airport, dressed like a tourist, her disguise designed to not draw attention. His attention, then, is a little odd. 

“There you are!” he greets her as he steps up to her table. He is dressed similar to her, in jeans, a clean and not overly expensive button-up, and a suit jacket. “I thought you’d checked in already.”

“How could I if you have the tickets, David?” she asks, playing along and testing the situation at the same time. His nod is brief, invisible to the trained eye. This truly seems to be David, and her instincts tell her so as well. 

“Right, sorry, I must’ve grabbed both,” he babbles, pulling a small envelope out of his inner jacket pocket and sliding it across the table. 

She accepts it, glancing quickly at the content: it holds a plane ticket, a passport, and a driving license. 

Mary Morstan. Born 1978 in England. 

She smiles at David, already halfway out of her seat. “Let’s check in.”

*~*~*

David Pinkerton becomes her confidante once they are in England as well as the one who tells her more about their boss, James Moriarty. He calls Moriarty a ‘consulting criminal’ and ‘well-connected’, which she translates into ‘wickedly clever’ and ‘ruthless’. Maybe even ‘insane’. 

Mary Morstan, on the other hand, is completely normal. She just decided on a career change from pharmaceutics to nursing and has been working part-time at a clinic, which means Mary enters the last year of nursing school as soon as she finds a flat in Liverpool. 

David poses as her boyfriend, who convinces her to join Twitter and takes selfies with her when they go on holidays together. There is no need to sleep with him, they both know it’s a cover, but it has been so long since she was able to choose to have sex that the opportunity is too good to pass up. It’s nice and honest, neither of them asking for more than the other is willing to give. 

Sometimes Moriarty requires her sharpshooting abilities, which is how she learns that no one simply stops working for Moriarty. One of her marks thought he could outsmart the man. What he gets for his troubles is death from a chemically induced heart attack, age 39. 

Moriarty just smiles icily when she asks if this dismissal policy pertains to all of his employees. 

During the three years she is with David, she meets one other member of Moriarty’s network: Sebastian Moran. 

He is tall and attractive in a serial killer sort of way. His smile reminds Mary of the sharks at Sea Life. He is deadly efficient, though, and easy to work with. She suspects there is more going on between him and Moriarty, given that Moran could easily earn much higher sums as a free agent on the black market than Moriarty is paying. That, or Moriarty knows Moran’s pressure point. 

Moran is there the first time Mary lays eyes on John Watson, wearing C4 and parroting Moriarty’s words at Sherlock Holmes in a dark public pool. 

Mary is lying on her stomach in sniper position, aiming the red dot at Watson who seems terrified but also eerily calm. 

She read his file, was actually the one to compile it when the man entered Holmes’ life. Army doctor – the paradox resonates deeply with her for some reason. The physician who is trained to kill. 

Later she will look back on that night at the pool and try to figure out when exactly she began falling in love with John. She thinks it was when he grabbed Moriarty and told Holmes to run, prepared to sacrifice himself for a man he barely knew. Maybe it was this display of blind loyalty that appealed to her, made her wish she could be the one to inspire such sentiment. 

Of course that was the moment Sebastian turns his own laser on across from her at the other side of the building and the detective and his blogger almost die, had it not been for a lewd dominatrix with too much information on her hands. 

Mary thinks no more of John Watson, not until she has moved to London with David after finishing nursing school. Not until Moriarty tells her he has another job for her. 

So she breaks up with David, who plays the ex who is still into her incredibly well. She applies to St Bart’s Hospital and gets accepted for January 2012. In November she helps Moriarty fake his death on the rooftop of that same hospital, the fake blood flowing from his body like devil’s horns. 

Holmes jumps and Mary watches John, devastated and incredulous, rushing towards his best friend only to be hit by a cyclist, loosing precious seconds on his way to the corpse. 

Not that it surprises her. From what Moriarty insinuated, she never expected Holmes to actually die. 

Moriarty disappears but she has her orders: get close to John Watson, make him fall for her. It is a long con with slow build because for the first year, Watson is drowning in grief, closed off to any advances. When he begins to resurface she seeks contact; a smile here, a hello there. 

When he asks her out on a date several months later, it does not feel like a job at all. She is more like herself with him than she has ever been with anyone, mostly because she is the kind of person John _likes_ , and isn’t that just perfect? 

So of course Sherlock Holmes returns the night that John plans to propose and Mary has to get on Sherlock’s good side because she doubts she would get to keep John if she made him choose between his girlfriend and his best friend returned from the dead. 

By that time, Mary is so deep undercover that she has almost forgotten the flash drive Moriarty handed her to use should she ever be compromised. 

She remembers it, later, when she is married and vulnerable and almost lost control of her life because of one nosy Danish bastard. It happens long after she decided to let her contraceptive implant expire and practically force-fed Sherlock the deduction of her pregnancy. She never wanted children, yet the unborn baby proves invaluable in keeping John tethered to her after the mess in Magnussen’s office.

While Mary has no clue what AGRA stands for, she knows that everything on the drive is a lie since she checked – the documents tell the story of a former CIA officer, but it’s not Natalia’s story. Moriarty probably reasoned that, should she ever need to use it, nothing would actually trace back to her and the CIA won’t know that she is still alive. 

She gives it to John and Sherlock that night in September. John moves back into 221B Baker Street. There is no contact from Moriarty, but David urges her to stay in place. 

When John finally talks to her again, it should feel liberating. 

“The problems of your past are your business,” he says. “The problems of your future are my privilege.” 

It sounds almost too good to be true because it is. She lost his trust, even if he did not read the flash drive, and she can never get it back. 

And then she is a mother and has a crying baby to deal with, and nappies and a husband who prefers chasing criminals in his free time and playing with his daughter to talking to his wife.

Mary feels the confines of her mission in a way she never has before. What used to be freeing is now stifling, oppressive. But Moriarty is back. Moriarty can fix it. So she calls him and waits like he tells her to.

*~*~*

John does not come home one Tuesday in May. The news tell the tale of a large prison break and she knows not to expect him home in time for Beth’s bed time. 

When her phone displays an unlisted number shortly after seven o’clock that night, she realises Moriarty planned it this way. She answers before the second ring. 

“Yes?”

Moriarty clicks his tongue on the other end. “Eager little poppet, aren’t we?”

Mary bites her tongue, ignoring the use of the endearment. “Well?”

The other man groans. “You’re no fun.” A pause. “Yes, you can go,” he says and she can hear him gesturing with an arm over the line. “You remember where?”

“Of course.” As if she would ever forget the information about a safe house. Moriarty is taunting her – he knows exactly how far Mary’s cognitive abilities extend. 

“Talk to you soon.” He hangs up without waiting for a reply, spurring Mary into action. 

How she has missed the adrenaline pumping through her veins… She may only be packing, just taking the essentials, and it still sends a thrill down her spine, like a ghost from a past she thought she had left behind. 

When everything is prepared Mary steps into the nursery where her daughter is sleeping, looking so peaceful and without worry. 

“I’m doing you a favour, sweetheart,” she whispers. It’s daft – the baby can’t hear her. Still she feels the need to say it. “I’m not cut out for this life. I thought I was. I wished I was… but I have to stop pretending. You’re better off without me. John will be a good father, Beth, if he keeps you.”

For a while Mary really believed she would be by his side, that he’d love her just as much as she loves him… Yet he only ever really forgave her in name, not in deed. 

Mary leans down, presses one last soft kiss to her daughter’s forehead, and disappears from the house for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I do like the prevailing Mary is Moran theory ([this one](http://221blueberries.tumblr.com/post/93462049891/i-just-finished-the-boscombe-valley-mystery-and-it), among other posts), I couldn’t resist writing Sebastian Moran (as predominantly portrayed by Michael Fassbender on Tumblr, e.g. [x](http://multifandom-madnesss.tumblr.com/post/110464255004/s-m-j-m) [x](http://multifandom-madnesss.tumblr.com/post/108457223240/bashermoriarty-moran-moriarty-tove-lo-habits) [x](http://multifandom-madnesss.tumblr.com/post/109325421519/bashermoriarty-mormor-au-it-only-takes-a-few) [x](http://bondlocked.tumblr.com/post/113541534096/burntsherlock-insp)) into this fic. Indulge me :)
> 
> Huge parts of my Mary backstory inspired by wellthengameover’s [AGRA meta](http://wellthengameover.tumblr.com/post/96431995747/agra%20%20).


	8. Our gentle sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John returns home to an empty flat. Q and James reach the point of no return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is now officially rated explicit as of this chapter due to sexual content. :)

John is silent the entire cab ride back to his place. Sherlock makes no attempt at conversation, even though he cannot return to his mind palace, not in the context of this atmosphere of repressed irritation emanating from his friend. 

“Tell me when you need me.” John’s tone is clipped and he is already half out of the cab before he even finishes the sentence. 

_I always need you,_ Sherlock thinks but refrains from saying. His chest feels tight. 

He gives the cabbie his Baker Street address and settles against the seat. His phone vibrates in the pocket of his coat, yet again. He rolls his eyes at the empty space next to him and contemplates just ignoring Moriarty’s newest quip. 

Curiosity wins out, obviously. 

When Sherlock reads the message, however, it is not a mocking remark belittling his efforts, but something else entirely. 

_Guess you won’t be the only one who returns to an empty flat tonight._

“Turn back!” Sherlock bellows at the driver, ignoring the man’s protests. 

When Sherlock reaches the house nestled between two others, all lights are on, even the one in Beth’s nursery. Sherlock’s worse fears are confirmed even before he lets himself in with his key and finds John frantically hitting redial on his phone in the living room, presumably trying to contact Mary. 

“How the hell did you know?” John shouts, pointing a finger at Sherlock as he advances on him. 

“Moriarty texted me this,” Sherlock explains, hoping his tone has a soothing effect (because he is so good at those, really), and holds up his phone. 

John reads the message and promptly throws his own against the nearest wall in an eruption of emotion. It connects with a bang, though from what Sherlock can see, only the screen seems to have cracked. 

“Why does everyone always leave?” John asks the room, his voice calm. The corners of his lips are turned upwards, almost as if he is smiling, but beneath it lies an undercurrent of cold fury. 

Sherlock would have paused to appreciate the sight if he were not so worried about Beth. “Maybe she just forgot to leave a note,” he stammers, at a loss for anything else to say. 

“You really think the former assassin would forget to leave a note for her husband telling him she’s – what? Went out for a night with her three-month-old baby?” John demands, his voice rising as he speaks the last few words. 

John catches himself, inhaling sharply and visibly forcing himself to calm down. Sherlock has often wondered who taught John that losing his temper is a bit not good. Probably his father. 

John stalks over to where his phone landed, pushing a button as he picks it up. The screen, while cracked, still works. 

“Who are you calling?” Sherlock cannot help but ask, not really able to deduce whom John might contact. Lestrade won’t be able to do anything for the first few hours. Legally, Mary and Beth are not missing yet. Moriarty’s text, which cannot be traced back to him anyway, will not help their case. 

“Mycroft,” John replies, his phone already at his ear.

Sherlock blinks. He stares at John as he explains the situation to his brother in a tone forced into steadiness by pent-up anger, ready to explode once the first target presents itself. 

“You’d better,” John barks into the phone after Mycroft probably told him he would be in touch as soon as he finds out anything. Then John turns to Sherlock, his expression dark. “Do your thing, Sherlock,” he growls. “This is a crime scene. Solve it.”

He does, even though it does not help them at all. They could have guessed that Mary only packed the essentials, and only a fraction of Beth’s toys and clothes are missing, as well as a bit of formula. 

Once Sherlock has finished listing his deductions, John regards him for a moment, his entire body tense and dangerous, vibrating with energy. 

“Let’s go,” he orders and Sherlock’s legs are moving without his mind telling them to. Before he can ask where, John nods at the street and Sherlock steps forward to hail a cab. 

The answer presents itself once John gives the cabbie the Baker Street address. At Sherlock’s quizzical look, John explains, “We’re going to start another crime wall.”

This taxi ride is just as silent as the one before.

*~*~*

Since Q did not, in fact, trace Bond’s progress after he left the gym, he has no clue whether or not to expect the agent in his flat once he returns home at the end of the day. 

Obviously he hopes to – Q would like to meet any person even remotely attracted to men who would not hope for James Bond to be waiting for them at the end of the day. Yet maybe Bond’s game of seduction involves long periods of unresolved sexual tension?

It might, but not in this case, as becomes apparent as soon as Q opens his door and is greeted by the smell of takeaway. He finds its source on the kitchen counter and a certain Double-oh on the sofa, caressing a purring Zed in his lap. 

“This is my favourite Indian restaurant,” Q observes in wonder when he notices the logo on the bag.

James’ grin is beyond smug. “And your cat sheds – since we’re stating the obvious.”

His reply startles a laugh out of Q as he prepares the food for reheating. A glance tells him James has already helped himself to a glass of water. And another shows he also fed the cat. Q has to grip the counter top in order to calm his thoughts, which are running absolutely wild with possible, albeit highly sentimental, explanations. 

“Well, you knew Zed would be here and yet you came here in a designer suit. Aren’t you supposed to work in intelligence, Bond?” Q quips. 

James doesn’t feel the need to answer, apparently, so Q finishes reheating the curry and carries the plates and cutlery over to his coffee table. 

It proves a tad complex, logistically speaking, for Bond to eat with Zed on his lap demanding attention, which James lavishly showers him with. Q cannot help but feel a bit jealous. Yes, he is aware that that’s ridiculous, thank you very much. 

Q has just cleared the plates and is panicking about how to proceed now when James beckons him to the sofa. 

“I think there’s a bump on Zed’s head. You should check; my knowledge of feline creatures begins and ends with ‘Do not wake a sleeping lion’.” 

“You should spend less time over-exercising and more time broadening your horizon, then,” Q shoots back before he realises what he just said. 

James’ smirk turns predatory. “How would you know if I’m over-exercising or not?”

“Please,” Q hurriedly dismisses, sitting down on the sofa next to the agent, “you always do after medical actually made you stay longer than four hours. There’s even a betting pool as to how long exactly it will take you to escape the doctors.”

“Is that so?” 

The question is rhetorical, so Q shifts his attention to Zed and feels the cat’s head for irregularities. 

“I can’t feel –” he begins, turning his head to look at James, which makes him realise just how close he is to the agent. 

James’ eyes are dark in the well-lit room as they meet Q’s, dancing with something hot and heady. Then they dart down to Q’s lips, and suddenly it is blaringly obvious that, of course, Zed does not have a bump anywhere. 

“Clever bastard,” Q breathes seconds before James closes the distance between them. 

Their second kiss is even better than the first, maybe only because it was pre-mediated and Q could prepare himself for being the sole focal point of James Bond’s sexual prowess. 

Zed flees when Q shifts, so he climbs into James’ lap instead. Once he settles, they just continue kissing, strong hands anchoring his hips without exerting pressure while Q’s fingers are resting against James’ jaw. There is no grinding, no groping, but Q’s heart is racing as if there were, all the blood vacating his brain in favour of lower pastures. 

The thought that he is snogging, actually _snogging_ 007 on his living room couch dizzies him and he has to break the kiss in order to draw a deep breath, releasing it shakily and making the mistake of blinking his eyes open. James is staring up at him, his lips red and his cheeks flushed, and Q’s cock twitches in the tightening confines of his trousers. 

James must know exactly what kind of effect his appearance is having, for now he shifts, guiding his hands back to Q’s arse and pulling him flush against Bond who honest-to-the-gods rises and _lifts him off the sofa_. 

Q gives an embarrassing yelp and throws his arms around James’ shoulders, wrapping his feet around the man’s waist. 

“Show-off,” he grumbles, yet he knows the way his erection presses into Bond’s stomach through too many layers of clothing undermines his complaint quite successfully. 

“You haven’t seen anything yet, Q,” James purrs near his ear. He kicks open the bedroom door (which stood ajar – had James seen to that prior to Q’s arrival?) and places Q gently on the bed. 

“I won’t break, you know,” he feels compelled to point out. 

Blue eyes darken even further. “Oh, I do.”

Then James pounces, attacking Q’s cardigan with deft fingers and before Q’s brain catches up to what is happening, his glasses are askew and he is shirtless. A strong, gun-calloused hand pushes him back and once Q has rightened his glasses he sees that James is looking at him, merely looking, his eyes mapping the expanse of his body. 

Q works out, though his body type has never supported much muscle building. He knows he is skinny, now more than three months ago given the weight of keeping Mycroft’s biggest secret, but Q has never been ashamed of his body. Now, though, he blushes, wondering what James sees when he looks down, how Q compares to those who the agent has had spread out before him in the past. 

“Beautiful,” James whispers, his voice deep and rough. Q swallows and James’ lips curl into a smile, a genuine one, just for a moment before he leans forward to kiss him again while his hands roam naked skin. Q can feel their paths burnt into the very core of his cells. 

His own hands move to James’ shirt as soon as he regains a minimum of brain function, though the task proves difficult enough that James huffs and slows his ministrations until the shirt falls open. 

Q sits up, urging James to follow the motion, and pushes the fabric off Bond’s shoulders. He has seen his torso before, bruised and bloodied in his bathroom, but this time he is allowed to touch, to trace the pink scars of the bullet wounds from Bond’s last mission, place kisses on older ones while matching each of them with a mission report that Q will never admit to having memorised. 

James thumbs one of his nipples then, making Q’s breath hitch. It is as if he has licked blood for suddenly, Q finds himself on his back again with James’ mouth on his chest. 

“James,” he moans, and suddenly teeth scrape across his skin. 

“Say that again,” James growls, his voice deeper than Q has ever heard him. 

He obliges and is rewarded with James’ fingernails running down his side. Q’s hips move on their own accord, eliciting a chuckle form the other man. 

“I’m going to wreck you,” James whispers into the jut of his right hipbone and one second later a hand makes quick work of Q’s belt and trousers. 

James pulls them off along with the underwear while Q props himself up on his elbows to gaze down his body. His erection curves up towards his stomach, beading precome from the tip. James’ eyes zero in on it and Q fists his hands into the sheets in anticipation. 

The other man leans forward until his mouth is mere centimetres from his cock, looking up at Q as if daring him to say anything. Q might have whimpered, yet it spurs James into action so he cannot muster any embarrassment. 

James Bond performs oral sex like he does everything else – expertly, with incredible focus, unrelenting until Q is gasping and losing control over his vocal chords. James just sucks harder, apparently greatly enjoying the sounds Q makes, and tongues the line where the shaft meets the glans and all of a sudden there is a finger circling his perineum and Q’s vision whites out so hard and fast that he does not even have a chance to warn James – 

\- who just takes all Q can give him and then licks him clean while Q is struggling with basic functions like breathing. Once he can process visual cues again, James is kneeling between his open legs at knee-level, gazing down at him with heavily lidded eyes and stroking his cock. 

When he shed the rest of his clothes, Q can only guess. Now, however, he is there in all his naked glory, lazily fucking his palm. 

“What do you want?” Q asks when he can be sure his voice won’t break. It is still rough, but then again James said he would wreck him. 

“Your hands,” is the immediate reply, James’ deep baritone sounding breathless at the thought. “Been thinking about them.”

“You have?” Q whispers, shifting into a kneeling position. James tracks the movement and licks his lips which bear the marks of that spectacular blow job. 

Instead of replying verbally, James takes his hand off his erection and clasps them behind his back, which brings out his chest even more. Q shuffles forward awkwardly until he can kiss those bruised lips and taste himself on James’ tongue. 

His right hand slides down James’ body until it reaches the soft curls at the base of his erection. Q teases him ruthlessly, tracing a vein at the side of his cock with just a fingertip, thumbing the slit until James’ hips are jerking forward and James is panting into Q’s mouth. 

The agent is still too controlled, though, so Q ups the stakes, allowing the hand not on James’ length to tease his nipples. Only when he runs a fingernail over the left one delicately does James react, a moan escaping his throat. It fills Q’s head, the power rush more dizzying than anything he has ever experienced. 

It becomes his aim to coax such a sound from the man in front of him, and he plays as dirty as he can. The man is a master of self-control, so he does not push Q into the mattress and rut against his thigh but takes every pinch, every scratch and every lick and bite after Q moves his mouth down James’ neck. 

“Q,” he finally pleads, sounding absolutely wrung out. 

Q thinks if he fails at everything else in life from now on, pulling such a sound from 007 will outshine anything. 

Q tightens his fingers in reward for the plea, experimenting with pressure and speed until he finds the exact combination that has James’ hands dig into the skin of his shoulders. Q’s mind transforms it into an algorithm which will forever be seared into his retinas. 

James’ chest shaking with moans and the rhythm of his hips snapping forward is becoming erratic – he must be close. Q leans in as if to kiss his parted lips but at the last moment decides to bite James’ lower lip instead and his entire body stills as he climaxes, long warm stripes coating Q’s palm. 

James collapses against him, so heavy and loose-limbed that it poses a challenge to keep them both from toppling over. Q eases them down and marvels the fact that one of James’ hands remains on his hips, keeping their bodies clothes. 

“You’re an evil man,” James whispers, his eyes still closed so he can’t see Q’s smirk. 

“Be rougher next time and I’ll show you mercy sooner.”

That has James blink his eyes open within the split of a second. He hesitates, his gaze calculating and way too alert for a man who just had an orgasm.

“What?” Q asks, unable to reign in his curiosity. 

“Just contemplating if your definition of rough and mine are congruent.”

“Congruent?” Q echoes, baffled. “I must have been more lenient than I thought if you can still use such a word post-coitally.”

“Says the man who turned post-coital into an adverb,” James replies, his tone amused. His hand tightens on Q’s hip and he pulls him closer until their chests are touching and any possible response on Q’s part gets lost in the heat of another kiss.

*~*~*

They do find out whether or not their definitions of rough are congruent, about an hour of lazy dozing later when James shifts on the bed and blankets Q with his body, pressing him into the mattress and immobilising Q’s hands in a vice-like grip. 

Something rumbles deep in James’ chest, a content sound that transforms his smirk into a leer. 

Q uses his distraction to move his feet, successfully flipping them over despite his restrained hands. Scratch what Q said before, James’ look of utter surprise as he finds himself on his back is Q’s greatest accomplishment. 

Q takes one of James’ hands, which have released his wrists at some point during the flip, and sucks two of the agent’s battle-worn fingers into his mouth. James’ eyes darken when Q guides them behind his back, down to his cleft, and the man catches on immediately, tracing his fingers down and continuing where he left off during his blow job. 

Time slows down and speeds up at the same time until James sits up and grabs the lube Q keeps in the middle drawer of his bedside table. Bond definitely went snooping before Q returned home, otherwise he would have had to rummage a little before uncovering the bottle. 

The image of James alone in Q’s flat, making himself at home, does strange things to his chest. 

Thankfully, the other man is becoming more and more eager, and by the time he drags his condom-clad cock against Q’s perineum, all thoughts more complex than _more more more_ have left his mind. 

Q cannot remember ever having sex this good – all his previous partners fade into obscurity as James flips them again, resuming his original plan of pinning Q down until the world has narrowed down to just the two of them and the places where skin is touching skin. 

Q comes first, spilling himself all over his stomach and chest. He tightens the grip of his legs around James’ waist, urging him to keep up the pace, a frantic rhythm that fills the bedroom with whimpers and moans until James gives one last, violent thrust.

For a moment they simply lie next to each other, catching their breaths. Just as Q’s higher brain functions are starting to return and remind him of how uncomfortable he will feel if he leaves the mess on his chest, James shifts, rolling off the bed and carrying the knotted condom across the room to the bin. 

He smiles as he opens the door and for a moment Q is worried that this is the sight of 007 riding off into the night never to return again, no matter that he is not wearing anything but bare skin. James, though, just crosses the corridor and opens the bathroom door, returning with a wet washcloth like the gentleman he is. 

“Thank you,” Q murmurs and receives a blinding smile in return. 

It isn’t awkward, moments later, when James returns from putting the cloth away. The man simply slips into bed again, pulling the covers over both of them and switching off the lamp next to the bed that Q cannot for the life of him remember being turned on. 

Q falls asleep soon thereafter, his body angled towards James, close enough to sense his body heat.

*~*~*

James wakes because of a ringing. It isn’t even a ringing per se, rather a non-threatening noise that soothes him into wakefulness. 

The room is dark safe for the sliver of light falling through the window and James can just barely make out Q’s sleeping form beside him. The younger man wakes just as gradually, stretching his arms above his head as he does and arching his back. The blanket that has been covering him until now slips down, exposing his bare torso, which looks enticingly pale in the moonlight. 

The ringing changes then, from low-key to something shriller, startling James into glancing at the clock. It is digital, probably has built-in rocket launchers if James has to hazard a guess (this is Q they are talking about, the man who once made James a tie pin that doubled as a poisonous arrow), so of course its features include forwarding calls from Q’s mobile phone. 

“Why is Mycroft Holmes calling you at one o’clock in the morning?” James asks the still-dozing man beside him, about to stretch out a hand to caress Q’s skin when the object of his ministration gives a strangled cry and leaps from the bed as if bitten. 

Q scrambles for his glasses, then takes the headset that is _of course_ attached to his clock-slash-alarm-slash-telephone-station and rushes out of the bedroom, just barely grabbing a robe that was hanging on a hook next to the door. 

James blinks after him, opting to sink back into the mattress for a few minutes more. Q will most certainly holler if the world is ending and anyone needs his particular skills. 

In the meantime, he switches on the bedside lamp and stretches himself, muscles pleasantly sore from last evening’s activities. Needless to say, what happened was a game changer, altering his and Q’s relationship forever. Yet James decidedly does not think about all the ways this could go wrong. He’ll have plenty of time to worry about this in a few or so days once he has been cleared for active duty. Instead, he looks about Q’s bedroom, eyes sliding over a cat tree with matching cat bed, chocolate brown wardrobe doors presumably hiding a vast cardigan collection and a decided lack of personal photographs. 

Nothing is on display, not even a holiday picture. James checked yesterday as he was waiting for Q to return home, though all he found was an open lube bottle and a pair of leather cuffs and Ben Wa balls. If Q has pictures, they are either safely hidden, in which case James could find them if he wanted to incur the wrath of his Quartermaster for such a profound breach of privacy, or simply non-existent. Or Q only keeps digital copies. 

James finally slides out of bed and into his pants, then traipses into the living area. Q is tucked away at his work station, all five screens on and running some sort of programme. James can make out one image on display on the far right of a lone woman with blond hair facing away from whatever camera Q has been hacking. 

“Yes, of course,” Q answers to whatever Holmes just asked, nodding even if the other man won’t be able to see it. “The program will keep running; I have automated it to send the results right to your tablet.”

Holmes says something that receives another nod in return, yet whatever he remarks next makes Q’s spine straighten and chases a blush down his neck where it is not covered by the silk robe. The item of clothing itself seems rather out of character for Q – too modern, too expensive. While Q’s shirts and cardigans are good quality, they are never pretentious – unlike this robe. A gift, James presumes. 

A movement to James’ left catches his attention, but it is only Zed who apparently noticed that the nefarious activities have stopped so she can safely return to her cat bed. James narrows his eyes and looks after her as he recalls the cat flap in the bedroom door. 

Yet before he can muse on the actual level of Zed’s intelligence, Q ends the call, pulling the headset from his ear. 

“What did he want at this time of night?” 

The younger man sighs heavily, not even bothering with an ironic reply. “Apparently John Watson’s wife disappeared with their daughter.” 

“Oh,” is all James says, wondering if John’s wife is the woman in the photograph – who did not have a baby with her. 

“I doubt I’ll be able to go back to sleep,” Q laments, deflecting the conversation. 

James allows it, but only because he senses the opportunity for heavy innuendo. “I might know how to exhaust you again, Q,” he purrs, laughing as the other man rolls his eyes at him. 

He does, however, also step towards him, so that is a win. 

“And how would you do that?” Q’s voice has dropped an octave though James just realised Q is sporting a rather impressive bite mark on his collarbone, so it might be for the best that Q’s question was rhetorical. 

James is on him in a heartbeat, licking into Q’s mouth and pushing the robe off his body while moving the two of them back towards the bedroom. As they enter, James can feel the highly annoyed glare of a cat, yet he really does not give a fuck if he scares Zed by rimming Q into oblivion. 

Zed stays, giving them both the proverbial and literal cold shoulder.

*~*~*

John feels like he is one rude comment away from running amok. 

Mary and Beth have been gone for two days and there is no sight of them other than one grainy surveillance photo of Mary in Soho which prompted Sherlock and him to run around the district for eight hours straight only to come up with _absolutely nothing_. 

John has not slept in about sixty hours. The crime wall is irritatingly empty and he cannot stand the impassive mask Sherlock put on at some point during the first night Beth was missing. It rubs him the wrong way, along with practically anything else. Then again, his daughter is missing, so people tend to excuse an awful lot of shitty behaviour on his part. 

His mood implodes when all Sherlock has to say when another lead falls through is “Hm.”

“Why in the name of God are you even bloody here?” John shouts. “I’m sure there are plenty more cases out there that are a lot more interesting!”

Sherlock jerks back as if John slapped him, his blue eyes wide. For the first time in hours, his expression betrays a hint of emotion. 

“I made a vow,” he states in barely more than a whisper. “I made a vow to protect your daughter and I will stand by it.”

“Then bloody well do it,” John snaps, regretting his tone a moment later. He inhales sharply. “I mean,” he starts again, at least superficially calmer this time while his blood is still on fire. “There’s got to be _something_. Mycroft said he brought in the Quartermaster of MI6, but all we’ve got is one lousy photograph!”

Sherlock does not say anything. Probably because there is nothing to say. They have nothing, no clue. They can’t even be certain whether or not Mary went voluntarily, even though that one picture would heavily suggest so. 

The strain of the past few days feels like lead curling around John’s bones, pulling him down and making his limps heavy. Bloody hell, he needs to sleep. Maybe he will think of something after a few hours of rest because he sure as hell can’t think of anything they haven’t tried right now. 

So he offers a curt, “I’m going to bed” as explanation before he drags himself out of the living room and up the stairs towards his former bedroom. 

Only a light layer of dust hints at how long the room has been unoccupied. Mrs Hudson must still be cleaning it at least every other week. John should probably thank her for that. And apologise for how he snarled at her earlier in the day, he thinks, grimacing. She was just trying to be helpful. 

With a world-weary sigh, John falls onto the bed, still fully clothed. His dreams are haunted by the corpses of infants, Mary in a blood-stained wedding dress, and Moriarty laughing in the shadows.


	9. Decrypted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** for rather graphic depiction of violence in this chapter. Also, the bit about AES file encryption is true. 
> 
> Sincerest apologies for the lack of second update this week! I’ve been through my own rendition of Fury’s Big Week, with everything occurring at once...

The stack of dirty dishes wobbles dangerously; almost tipping over, but at the last second the construction keeps its balance. Greg breathes out in relief, extracting his mobile phone from where he has clamped it between his head and shoulder while cleaning his kitchen a bit. Not that it would make a difference in the grand scheme of his flat, given that it currently looks more like a bachelor pad than anything a respectable DI would inhabit. 

“Sorry, mate, how are you?” John’s voice asks on the other end of the line after spending at least five minutes complaining about how the SIS are a bunch of uninspired wankers. To be fair, his wife and kid have been missing for eight days, so Greg can imagine that would drive someone into condemning the Secret Service on an unsecure line. 

“Oh, you know, the usual,” Greg answers, and like all the other times in the past week, John doesn’t realise how empty that reply actually was. 

“I guess you can call Sherlock if anything comes up. He’s done everything he can on this.”

There is an undercurrent of frustration mixed with anger that Greg has become rather familiar with ever since he dragged John out for a pint after a worried message from Sherlock saying John needed a distraction. 

The fact that Sherlock Holmes asked Greg to help in itself is incredibly rare, yet Sherlock asking for help for someone else is unprecedented. Greg keeps waiting for the rivers to transform into blood, or some other sign of the impending apocalypse. 

“Sure, John, I’ll call. But the past few cases’ve been pretty clear.”

“Alright… Just don’t think –” John begins to add, but a dull beep makes Greg interrupt him. 

“Listen, I’ve got another call; it’s the precinct. I’ve got to take this. But we’ll go for pints this weekend, alright?” 

“Uh, sure –”

“Hang in there, mate!” Greg tells him, hurried though heartfelt, before answering the other call. “Lestrade.”

“You better come in, boss,” Donovan says without bothering with a greeting. “’Cos I got a mutilated journalist in her flat in the City and the Commissioner won’t like me taking point on this.”

*~*~*

The victim’s name is Nisha Kapoor, Donovan fills him in on his way to the crime scene, his siren easing the way through Central London on a busy Friday morning. 

“Why does that name ring a bell?” Greg asks into the speaker, taking a corner at higher speed than probably advisable. Hell, he’s got a murder to solve on his day off, anticipatory driving be damned. 

“She’s with the New York Times London office,” Sally supplies. “Won several awards for investigative journalism and did lots of controversial topics. You probably caught her by-line on some of the articles about Holmes three years back.”

Greg grunts into his headset and claims a parking spot near the four-storey red brick building that houses the crime scene. 

He whistles into his phone as he passes the cordon, the officers standing guard so familiar with his face that they don’t even spare his badge a second glance. “I guess I’m on the wrong side at press conferences.”

Donovan gives a polite laugh and hangs up after telling him the floor and flat number.

“You eat a big breakfast?” is her first question as he meets her at the door to 4C. 

“Why?”

“’Cos you’re not gonna keep it down after seeing this.”

Now Greg is intrigued. Sally has earned herself a lot of respect for being able to handle every crime scene, no matter how revolting it may be. If she warns him, it has to be bad. 

“What’s the story?” he enquires as they walk into the living room. The entire flat is clear lines and stark contrasts in colour, light floors and walls and dark furniture. A large flat screen decorates the wall in front of an expensive-looking red leather sofa, books fill shelves in various corners of the room and big, colourful floral prints add another layer to the décor. It all serves to make Greg acutely aware that he hasn’t ironed the shirt he is wearing. 

“Her editor called us, saying she missed an appointment with him to update him on her progress. She was never late, so he called her mobile, then her landline, then came over.”

“He came over?” Greg echoes, squinting at a glass cabinet that proudly showcases three impressive-looking statues. 

“Apparently Kapoor was working on a pretty explosive story and he said he’s been worried ever since she decided on covering it.”

“You saying that got her killed?”

Sally’s face softens as she nods slowly. “The murder was definitely planned; you’ll see it, too.”

Curious and more than a little concerned, Greg follows the sounds of NSY’s forensic people filtering into the room from the left-hand hallway, Donovan at his heels. 

His first thought upon laying eyes on the scene is, “Sherlock’s going to love this.”

His second – “Bloody hell.”

He might have said the latter out loud. 

Nisha Kapoor’s body is spread out on her bed, pillowed on a layer of newspapers – the New York Times as far as Greg can tell. Her wrists and ankles are tied to the metal bedposts by something that looks like those plastic binders that keep newspapers together when they are shipped out to the shops each night. 

The most striking aspect, however, is not her nakedness, which would have been a beautiful and erotic sight in any other situation. It is the wounds the killer inflicted on her: her mouth has been wired shut with thick black thread, drill holes to her ears and eyes are distorting her features and there appears to be a similar contusion piercing her pubic mound. 

They are definitely drill holes – no resulting mess associated with gunshot wounds, and if that’s not obvious enough there is also a drill lying next to her hip on the paper-covered mattress. 

“Bloody hell indeed,” Anderson agrees. His face is pale and has a greenish tinge, yet he keeps working. “This was one sick bastard.”

“Why do these things have to happen on my day off?” Greg complains, for if he doesn’t say anything silly, he might have a breakdown. He has seen a lot of twisted shite in his time with the force, but this might just take the prize. 

He catalogues as many details as he can stomach, then turns to Sally. “What story was she working on?” 

At that, Donovan’s expression grows pained, almost constipated. It’s not a good look on her and Greg immediately associates it with Sherlock whenever he catches it on his colleague’s face. 

“The editor didn’t know much, but she apparently had a source that linked Magnussen’s news network to Moriarty.”

Greg groans, running a hand over his face. “Brilliant. Should I call Sherlock now or shall we wait a bit so he can shout at us for contaminating his crime scene?”

He receives no sympathy from Sally, only a flippant shrug. Greg goes for his phone.

*~*~*

When Sherlock waltzes into the flat, everyone is surprised to see he brought John. 

“You okay, mate?” Greg feels compelled to ask, watching closely as John nods stiffly. 

“Had to get out. I’ve still got a few personal days left.”

“Well, you’ll regret tagging along,” Greg points out, then leads the two men into the bedroom. 

Even Sherlock blanches, his throat working as if the sight made bile rise in it. John curses under his breath. 

Greg leaves the consulting detective to do his thing, watching sharp blue eyes dart from detail to detail but obviously taking so much more from them than Greg ever will. Two minutes later, Sherlock disappears from the room, coming to a stop in the living room where he looks around until John joins him as Greg just observes the two. 

“What’s wrong with this picture?” Sherlock asks, indicating the large print of a daisy hanging on the wall. 

John squints at it for a moment. “The frame – it’s different from the others.”

Sherlock’s lips curl into a smile that Greg would describe as proud. “Exactly. All other frames are custom-made and quite expensive; that one is store-bought. Custom-made ones take time, time the victim didn’t have.”

“You mean the picture’s hiding something?” Greg suggests, unable to help the small jolt of satisfaction that Sherlock’s nod elicits. It is easy to doubt one’s own intelligence if one spends a lot of time with Sherlock Holmes, so moments like these come a long way. 

Sherlock himself is already on his way over to the picture, slipping his hands into plastic gloves that he probably stole from forensics. Greg crosses the room and comes to a stand next to the picture that Sherlock lifts off the wall gently. The frame is thick, approximately two centimetres, and thus thick enough to create a hollow space between the concrete and the actual canvas. 

Sherlock moves the print to the side, revealing two external hard drives that have been gaffer-taped to the wall.

*~*~*

Q’s smile widens as R places a transparent package holding two hard disks near the keyboard of the computer he is currently working on.

“Gosh, they’re right – you _do_ look barmy.”

That catches his attention. “Excuse me?” he asks, turning his head towards his second in command. She is wearing a skirt today and a cerise blouse – it must be date night with her husband later. 

“Oh, like you haven’t heard the interns whisper about you,” she argues, as if that explained anything. 

“While I generally delight in the workings of our minions’ rumour mill, in this particular case I’m afraid I missed out,” he deadpans, earning him a shake of the head from the older woman. 

“You’re still smiling.”

“So?” Q’s brow furrows. 

R raises an eyebrow. “Your default expression is a poker face, Q; you maintain it in even the most high-pressure situations. But for some reason – which I really don’t think I want to know – you’ve been constantly smiling for the past four days. Word is you’ve finally cracked under the pressure and are going to take over the world in a few days.”

“Please, if I ever wanted to take over the world, I wouldn’t alter my behaviour and tip you off,” Q scoffs, hoping it will divert R’s attention from the topic at hand and ease his conversational transition to the items in the transparent bag. “What is so important about these that _you_ are playing messenger?”

Thankfully, it works and R explains, “They were found in the flat of a murdered journalist. She was allegedly working on a story about Moriarty, so NSY sent the disks over to you while Holmes is starting with the legwork.”

Q picks up the items reverently, immediately intrigued by what they could hold if it cost a reporter their life. R might have said something in goodbye but if she did, it does not register. 

She has a point, though – Q has been in an awfully good mood. That is what regular sex with James Bond does to a person, he fathoms. It has been a week and the agent has not lost interest yet. James stayed over six out of the past seven nights and Q’s body cannot seem to handle the amount of serotonin their activities release into his bloodstream, so he is continuously smiling and scaring interns. 

Q shakes his head and takes the disks to his office, focussing on disconnecting his laptop from every network before his mind can supply him with graphic memories unsuited to the workplace. 

See, he learnt his lesson from the entire Silva-debacle: Nowadays all decryptions or even potential decryptions of unknown information are carried out on computers outside the network as to prevent a virus from spreading to MI6 servers.

The first hard drive he plugs in once he has closed the blinds on his office door probably belonged to the journalist, whom a quick check identifies as Nisha Kapoor. The name gives Q pause – he is actually familiar with her writings. His suspicions turn out to be correct after he hacks her twenty-three-digit password for the encrypted device, uncovering drafts of the story she was working on as well as summaries of meetings with her source. She might have used a high-end programme to scramble the data, yet nothing so special that MI6 would not have a decryption software at the ready. 

The second disk proves infinitely more difficult. Q curses under his breath as he inspects the security measures placed on its content. Someone really did not want anyone to access it. 

The protection uses 256-bit AES file encryption, which would require billions of supercomputers running longer than the known age of the universe to crack by brute-forcing the issue. Two keys are needed to unlock the package, yet as opposed to publically available programmes of such calibre, there is no public key in this case. 

Putting the proverbial harder nut aside for a moment, Q cleanses the files he found on Kapoor’s disk and saves them on three flash drives – one for NSY, one for Sherlock, one for Mycroft – then has the SIS take them off his hands and deliver them before he sets up camp in front of his laptop again. 

This might take a while.

*~*~*

Q has not become the youngest Quartermaster in the history of MI6 by being good at computers. He reached the position he holds because he is _bloody exceptional_. 

Yet even he requires eighteen hours of hacking to crack that sodding hard drive. 

“Breakfast?” 

James’ voice startles Q and he lifts his head from the screen, squinting at the suit-clad Double-oh agent in confusion. He is standing in the doorframe, conveniently ignoring the fact that closed blinds are Q’s equivalent of putting up a ‘Not to be disturbed’ sign on his office door. 

“Breakfast?” he echoes rather stupidly. 

“Known as the first meal taken after rising from a night’s sleep – or in your particular case a meal taken in the early morning because I am fairly certain you did not go home last night, Q.”

“Only fairly certain?”

“I did sleep for a few hours,” James concedes. “Zed is quite angry with you. I would stock up on catnip.”

“I thought you were her catnip,” is what slips out of Q’s mouth. _Wow, Q. Smooth._ His brain has apparently left its filter back in the main rooms of Q Branch. 

James’ answering grin borders on predatory. “I’m her catnip?” 

Q wishes for a hole to open up and swallow him. Maybe he can design something to that effect? Something that measures the intensity of his blush and automatically engineers his escape when the blush turns too intense? 

“Well, she certainly has taken a liking to you, 007. Good to see I have not been made completely redundant.”

“We couldn’t have that,” James teases, his eyes crinkling in amusement. 

“What were you saying about breakfast?” 

Not Q’s subtlest attempt to change the topic, but passable. And effective, for James places a paper bag and a steaming paper cup on his desk next to the laptop. 

“Not from the cafeteria, because their food is ghastly,” James explains, pushing the items across Q’s desk. 

“If you brought back your equipment more often, 007, our budget might allow for better food.”

James laughs, a brilliant sound that trails off into a chuckle that originates deep in his chest while Q opens the bag to find a breakfast baguette from the food chain he sometimes frequents when he is in a hurry. He bites his lip since asking James how he knew Q’s breakfast food of choice would probably insult the agent’s sensibilities. 

“Thank you,” he offers belatedly and James takes a seat in front of his desk with his usual grace, unbuttoning his suit jacket as Q takes a sip from the proffered tea. 

“Still working on the hard drive?”

Q nods, fingers already flying across the keyboard again. “I’m almost finished. I’m double-checking my work before I actually crack this thing, just to make sure there are no unintended consequences.”

James watches him while he does, rising from his chair and walking around his desk after Q gives a victorious cheer. The encryption is shattered and immediately tries to emit a signal to whoever wrote the programme – presumably to transmit the disk’s location. However, Q has taken every possible precaution against that happening, so now the drive is contained and open for inspection. 

“Impressive,” James comments from over his shoulder, close enough that Q can sense his body heat if he closes his eyes and – 

Work. Sensitive files. Right. 

“Just doing my job,” Q replies, his voice shaking almost unnoticeably. James, of course, does notice, though his only reaction is to run his hand along Q’s shoulders as he steps back. 

“Then I shall leave you to it, Q.”

He looks up, unable to help his smile. “Thanks for breakfast.”

“You could show your appreciation by actually eating it, you know,” James quips, then exits the room, closing the door behind him and leaving Q to run a few basic programmes on the hard disk’s files and eat in peace.

*~*~*

Q hands the files on the disk to his best analysts, then locks himself into his office to sleep on his couch for a few hours before visiting the cafeteria. He successfully avoids the lunch rush and hopes to make a quick getaway, though his plans are thwarted when Eve slides into the chair opposite him. 

“So,” she drawls, her eyes sparkling and his lips curled in a smirk. “007 brought you breakfast.”

Q keeps his expression blank. _Bloody spies._ “Possibly.”

When he does not say more, Eve leans forward and props her elbows up on the table while crossing her legs and resting her face on her intertwined fingers. “Q.”

“Eve?” 

“If you’re aiming for innocent you’re missing by a mile.”

“You know I’m anything but.”

“Well, compared to James Bond you’re the gazelle and he’s the lion,” she replies with a wink.

“Do you often contemplate which animals correspond to which of your colleagues in a given scenario?”

She lowers her hands on the table, her smile widening. “Only when they’re engaging in suspicious behaviour.” 

Q shrugs, hoping it will transmit a sentiment of nonchalance and picks up his tray. Unsurprisingly, Eve tails him to the conveyor and out of the room without saying a word until Q reaches one of the three blind spots in the MI6 building (which only a handful of people know about), where he spins around abruptly and glares. 

“Aw, you think pouting is going to keep me from meddling? I want details!”

“You’re not getting details,” Q insists, realising his mistake a second too late.

“So there _are_ details?”

“None that concern you, Miss Moneypenny,” he asserts in his most authoritative tone. Unfortunately Eve has seen him drunk at two in the morning, so any authority he might ever project will probably be lost on the woman. 

She chuckles and pats his shoulder with a hand. “I bring the tequila, you bring the details. We’ll have another girls’ night.”

“I doubt I’ll be home at a reasonable hour, Eve. Both Holmes brothers are coming in for a briefing. Besides, I’ve slept barely five hours in the past two days, so I would only drool on you.”

It is only half the truth, yet telling Eve that James has been sleeping at Q’s place really is the least advisable course of action in this particular situation. 

“Fine,” she grumbles and Q cheers internally. “But you’re not getting out of this, Quartermaster.” 

Q nods indulgently before returning to Q Branch and gathering the analysts’ results so he can prepare a briefing that will keep both Mycroft and Sherlock entertained and not bore Bond and Watson to tears. If 007 is actually capable of crying. Q thinks the man lost that ability long ago. 

James, of course, is fashionably late to the meeting in the most secure conference room MI6 has to offer. When he enters he smells freshly showered – _probably came straight from the gym_ , Q theorises as he forces the smile bubbling up in his chest back down again. He cannot have the younger Holmes making wild deductions and derailing the meeting. 

Mycroft meanwhile raises an eyebrow at Q where he is switching on the projector. How the bloody hell the older Holmes figured it out is beyond Q, yet he is not naïve enough to think there was ever a time when Mycroft has not been aware of their… their what? Fling? Affair? 

Before an adequate answer presents itself, M enters to start the meeting. Q’s eyes take in Watson’s straight back and attentive expression on the right, Sherlock’s languid posture next to him, Mycroft’s poker face and M’s friendly demeanour at table end across from Q, and eventually dares a glance at James who is seated across from the detective and his blogger. 

The agent is projecting an air of interest and sincerity that looks so unlike him that it has to be fake. James is looking at M but if Q is not imagining things, the agent’s eyes are smiling.

“What have you found, Q?” M asks, passing the proverbial ball to him. 

He rises from his chair next to his laptop and walks them through the files they encountered on the hard drives: fragments, code names, schedules, contacts… Everything is incomplete, compiled without a system of order or any frame of reference. 

“We were able to match some people and operations mentioned to incidences that we know of,” Q continues, flicking his wrist to prompt the motion sensor to switch to the next display – a large, dotted map of the world. “So far these include four drug trafficking rings, one human trafficking ring, two known smugglers in Egypt, as well as one international arms dealer and a considerable number of low-life thugs which are fish too small for us to actually care about.”

Q gestures again and the map zooms in on Europe, an image popping up. The man is in his thirties, handsome in a creepy sort of way, with eyes as blue and cold as ice. 

“Meet Sebastian Moran. Related to the former Minister for Overseas Development and now cheerfully incarcerated Lord Moran. Sebastian is his nephew on his brother’s side, who married an Irish woman. As far as we know, Sebastian Moran started out in the IRA, yet flipped on his team and has been working for the highest bidder since. Or at least so we thought.” Q pauses for effect. “From the information on the disk we can assume Moran has been working for Moriarty for at least five years, if not more. Other than that we also found references to a group of thieves you might be particularly familiar with.”

Q switches to the next slide, revealing the faces of Arthur Somerton, Diego Hallard, and Holič Kolář. 

Watson growls, his hands balling into fists. He is paler than Q remembers him, his face thinner, eyes harder. Elisabeth Watson has yet to be found and John Watson still holds his wife accountable. His temper is understandably running high. 

“When will you stop with the boring parts and finally tell us what you know about the man who made the hard drive?” Sherlock snarks, leaning forward impatiently.

Q smiles blandly. “All we get is a code name – Tchar.” The screen behind him displays the name in the original Cyrillic, тхор. 

“So he’s Russian?” Watson asks only to have both Bond and the Holmes brothers shake their heads at him. Watson groans in defeat. 

“It’s Belarusian, also known as White Russian,” Sherlock explains, yet without the pretentiousness Q would have expected from the detective. “Tchar means ferret.”

“Which makes ‘тхор старшы’,” Q continues, pointing at the screen where the code name appears, “Ferret Senior, Tchar’s father.”

“Arthur Somerton,” Sherlock concludes.

“How –”

“He’s just reading the bloody scan,” James fills in his former comrade. Watson still seems impressed. 

“But he’s right. Our best estimate is that the owner of this hard drive is Semyon Somerton, son of Arthur Somerton and member of the Eastern Europe branch of the Waters crime family.”

“I thought the Waters were innocent?” John cut in. “They weren’t the ones who robbed the banks.”

“No, but there is a lot more to the Waters family than meets the eye, John,” Mycroft says, his tone a tad irritated if Q were to pass judgement. “The government has been aware of the shadier nature of their business for quite some time, yet so far we never had enough evidence against them.”

“Looks like this Semyon wanted to give us all we needed,” James states, elaborating when M motions for him to do so. “You don’t compile a hard drive full of secrets and give it to a journalist if you plan on staying where you are. Semyon planned on engendering interest with the article, then trade his information for protection against his family. It’s probably why he came to England in the first place.”

“Yes,” Sherlock rushes to say, apparently eager to contribute his own thoughts. “He usually operates further East, but his father would have required help with breaking out of prison. Somerton didn’t know whom to trust, so of course he includes his son in his plans.”

“How did they meet?” John wonders. “The journalist and this Semyon? I mean, you don’t simply walk up to a journalist and offer a story if your police record’s as long as this bloke’s.” 

“Well, Miss Kapoor has been known to employ rather unusual measures of gathering information,” Sherlock replies, only to be interrupted when John asks, “Unusual measures?” 

“She has been rumoured to sleep with sources for information.” 

“Getting her attention would have been easy enough,” James offers. “Then all he had to do was feign reluctance and make her believe coercing him into talking has been her idea all along.”

Yes, James would know all about missions like this. Q’s mouth is suddenly dry and his chest tightens from a surge of irrational anger. 

“Which means she would have needed a way to contact him,” Sherlock chimes in. “The number for his prepay phone, maybe.”

“There was no number on her hard drive,” Q points out. “Did you find anything in her flat?” Sherlock and John both shake their heads. “Then I guess you weren’t thorough enough.”

Sherlock gapes, though James seems to find his jibe utterly amusing if his chuckle is anything to go by. Even Mycroft is smirking as he shifts, commanding everyone’s attention with such a small movement. 

“I suggest my brother and Dr Watson return to the woman’s flat and find whatever it is they missed the first time,” the older Holmes decides, “and once we have a number, you will coordinate with 007 and Q on any further actions. This is too delicate a situation for you to barge in on your own, brother,” Mycroft chides, prompting an eyeroll from Sherlock. 

M nods, turning towards James. “Bond, you will complete your requalification tests today so you can go back into the field. Q,” he continues and Q’s head snaps up to meet his boss’ gaze. “Go home. You’ve done excellent work. You will be called in if there are any new developments in the course of this evening.”

At Q’s nod, Sherlock practically jumps up and out of the room, dragging an exasperated John after him. Mycroft makes a point of guiding M out of the room, which leaves James and Q alone in the most sealed off location in the entire building. 

Q stalls a bit, taking his time as he powers down the projector and unplugs his laptop. When he straightens, Bond is behind him, cat-fast and noiseless, crowding into his space. James’ chest brushes his back and suddenly the air in the room is stifling. Q’s eyes dart towards the door but Mycroft must have closed it behind them. 

“Going to wish me luck?” James whispers in Q’s ear and for a second he is confused before he remembers M’s comment about James having to requalify today.

“You won’t need it,” Q breathes, biting his lip as a strong arm snakes around his torso, pressing him back against the agent. 

“How can you be so sure? Have you been watching me train?” James’ voice is low and slightly raspy, a sign of growing arousal. Q has been in the man’s presence so frequently that he could paint a diagram of how sexual desire affects his vocal patterns… 

“Someone needs to make sure you don’t over-exercise, 007.”

Q can feel lips against the skin behind his ear, making him shiver. 

“You won’t even call me by my name when we’re alone _here_?” James whispers against his skin. Q can feel James’ chest move with every breath the man takes. 

There is a challenging comment on the tip of his tongue. It would be so easy – goading James into fucking him right here, or bring him to suck Q off. No one would ever notice and the image of James on his knees on the generic MI6 office floor is enough to make his cock twitch against his hip… 

Q shakes his head, turning around in James’ hold effortlessly until he can look into blue eyes that are shadowed with lust. 

“Not at work.”

“Are you sure?” James purrs, dragging his right hand slowly up Q’s chest while the other clasps his hip, exerting enough pressure that Q can feel the movement through the layers of fabric. 

Q swallows thickly, acutely aware of how James tracks the movement and licks his lips. His body is urging him to be reckless, to put his hands on James’ shoulders and push him down to his knees, but Q’s mind still has the reins firmly in hand. So instead he takes hold of both of James’ wrists and pulls them off his body, meeting James’ pouting gaze confidently. 

“Not at work,” he repeats and sees the exact moment the agent forfeits. 

“Just a kiss, then,” James suggests a heartbeat later. “For luck.”

Q purses his lips. He should say no because the road to hell is paved with good intentions after all, and what will keep a kiss from turning into them rutting against each other like bloody teenager? 

As if reading his thoughts, James insists, “ _Just_ a kiss,” and Q closes the distance without further hesitation. 

It is sweet and rough and hot and filled with promises of what will follow once they are in the privacy of Q’s flat again. When they part, Q is utterly breathless. Bond, unsurprisingly, does not look even slightly ruffled. 

“Good luck, James,” Q says as soon as his voice cooperates again, his tone as final as he can manage. 

The agent merely smirks coyly before exiting the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next – part one of the big showdown!
> 
> *scratches-head* Mary is Moran, Moran is Moran? Both? Either way, I just couldn’t resist including Michael Fassbender, who has been cast as Moran in MorMor AUs on Tumblr ([x](http://multifandom-madnesss.tumblr.com/post/121700138682/deducethegay-the-magpie-and-the-tiger), [x](http://multifandom-madnesss.tumblr.com/post/121783073393/but-the-lord-said-go-to-the-devil-the-lord-said), [x](http://multifandom-madnesss.tumblr.com/post/121593330479/mormortrash-dullards-would-have-you-believe). 
> 
> Re: Tchar – the dictionary I used transcribed the Serbian word as "Tkhor", yet as my beta has rightfully pointed out, x ~ cha in Cyrillic. If anyone has any insight, please let me know!


	10. Here Come The Drums

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second last chapter, y’all! Warning for 00Q fluff. Enjoy it while you still can…

John cannot help but smile at the window of the cab while Sherlock keeps muttering under his breath in the seat next to him. It has to be the first time in the past week that John is in a better mood than his best friend and he is going to enjoy it while it lasts, no matter how many glares Sherlock levels at him. 

Greg meets them at the flat to let them in – and to gloat, John thinks, judging by the smirk Greg is sporting. 

“Forgot something, mate?” he jeers. Sherlock’s answering look could melt metal. 

“Yes, very funny, Gavin. There is no need for your insightful comments.”

John chuckles. “Don’t be so prissy, Sherlock. We’ve got to make it worth our time because you hardly ever miss.”

Sherlock grumbles something that doesn’t quite reach his ears and then barges into the flat while completely ignoring the police tape, spinning on his heels and stopping just for a split second to look about the room once he is inside. 

John does his best to help by decidedly not helping – God forbid he finds the phone number instead of Sherlock. That would really add insult to injury. 

Thirty minutes later, the consulting detective once again proves why his arrogance is justified by uncovering a hidden compartment at the underside of the socket of one of Nisha Kapoor’s trophies in her glass cabinet. 

“Eureka,” Sherlock whispers, extracting a miniature notebook with a soft cover from the trophy and putting the statue back exactly how they found it. 

Then there is silence. 

“Sherlock?” John inquires, stepping closer to where his friend is thumbing through the little book. 

“It’s encoded, of course it’s encoded, that woman was smart,” Sherlock mutters, his tone chafing.

“Can you crack it?” 

“Of course I can crack it, John!” Sherlock insists. “I just can’t say how quickly.”

“Well, I got a date with that new show on Netflix,” Greg chimes in, “so if you can do that cracking at Baker Street, I’d be very much obliged.” 

“How can you have a date with a show on a platform that advertises total independency of schedules?” Sherlock challenges, but John is already ushering him towards the front door. 

“That was the polite version of ‘toss off, I’m off the clock’.”

Sherlock tilts his head. “Then why wouldn’t you just say so?”

John exchanges a half-fond, half-unnerved look with Greg, then grabs the tail of Sherlock’s coat and manoeuvres him out of the building, shouting a “Goodnight, mate!” over his shoulder.

*~*~*

Q wakes because there is a hand stroking his stomach. He tenses during that first moment of shock, yet the familiarity of the touch makes him relax again, shifting slightly until his bare back finds James’ chest behind him. 

He keeps his eyes closed but even like this he can tell that the room is already lit by early morning sunshine. 

“Did you pass?” he murmurs into the cushion, relishing the sensation of James’ fingers skirting over his skin, up his chest and down to his hips, careful to neglect Q’s cock which is beginning to take an interest in the proceedings. 

“Of course.” Q can feel the vibrations of James’ voice against his skin. “Did you have doubts?”

He shakes his head, then simultaneously stretches and rolls onto his back, turning his head to the right so he can see James. The agent looks awake and alert as always, though his posture is relaxed, the lines of his face more even because of it. His hand comes to a stop over Q’s left hipbone, with James’ arm resting on his right hipbone stomach. 

For a drawn-out moment they simply observe each other, Q marvelling the strong definition of James’ chest and the coarse blond hair dusting his torso. He reaches out, traces the sternum with a finger and continues over James’ ribs, keeping his caress light and teasing. Bond’s thumb is rubbing circles into his skin, so close to his groin and still not touching. Q can feel himself growing harder, his erection beginning to press against the soft cotton of his pyjama bottoms. 

“How much time do we have until you need to prepare for work?” James asks almost matter-of-factly, his eyes mapping the expanse of Q’s chest and shoulders. 

“Uh,” is his incredibly eloquent reply. He twists to his left until he catches a glimpse of his alarm clock. “Half an hour?”

“We better hurry, then.”

James sits up, pushing down the blanket that was covering him up to the navel and exposing the navy blue, low-riding briefs he seems to prefer. They are gone quickly, just like Q’s pyjama bottoms. He tries half-heartedly to help but James slaps his hands away playfully – Q is considerably less coordinated than James in the mornings. At least morning sex has put him in a more favourable mood regarding engaging in any activity before his second cup of tea, yet it is still the older man who does most of the ‘heavy lifting’, as they say. 

Today, as it would seem, does not involve any lifting whatsoever because James just shifts until his body is covering Q’s and he can fit their mouths together effortlessly. 

Kissing James is something Q will never ever tire of. The thought flickers across his mind every single time they kiss, and each and every time Q feels a sliver of dread because that sounds suspiciously like _forever_ , a concept that is simply not on the table for them. Q is doing his best to keep his feelings in check, to keep this petty crush from consuming him completely, and mentally rhapsodising the kissing skills of this particular Double-oh agent almost certainly leads to a one-way track to insanity. 

It is hard, though – no pun intended – to ignore the warmth spreading in his chest when James is so bloody perfect all the time. Sure, he possesses a disregard for rules and regulation and Q’s equipment that borders on religious, is stubborn as hell and smug and arrogant… but then he does things like bring Q breakfast or cook dinner or, like he is now, wrap a lube-slicked palm around both their erections because he knows more complex acts are beyond Q right after waking up. 

Q digs his fingers into James’ shoulders, nails digging into the thick layer of muscles with enough force to break the skin. James loves it; Q has been surprised to find out. Light pain in many variations, from a scrape of a nail or the pressure of teeth… Once Q twisted James’ nipple while the man was buried inside of him and James came with a moan that has haunted Q’s mind ever since. 

Good that Q is not in psych or they would probably have a field day. 

The hand job is too quick and too harsh for Q to become incredibly creative, waves of pleasure shaking his body from the way James’ fingers exert the perfect amount of pressure on his cock. It is a feat of epic proportions to keep his hips from pistoning upwards into the tight ring of James’ hand, the velvety feel of the other man’s erection against his own adding another source of arousal. 

Q moans and his breath stutters at a particularly strong tug, prompting him to break the kiss until the pleasure build-up reaches its peak. Q arches off the mattress mere seconds before James stills in ecstasy. 

When they have both caught their breath again and cleaned up sufficiently, a glance at the clock shows they still have thirteen minutes before Q really has to get up and he – 

\- _would have_ kissed James, if the phone wasn’t interrupting him. 

James grumbles in protest as Q climbs over his torso, since for some reason they have ended up on different sides than from where they started, and picks up his headset. 

“This is Q.”

“Holmes’ brother has unearthed a phone number,” M’s voice comes through the speaker, sounding more tired than awake and slightly annoyed, presumably because either Sherlock or Mycroft woke him up with that piece of information. “Come in immediately and call 007 on your way; we’ll need him when we hash out the mission details.”

“Yes, sir, give me twenty-five minutes,” Q replies with as much finality as he can muster. He lives ten minutes from Vauxhall by cab, though there is no universe in which Q will not shower right now before undertaking anything that involves going out in public. 

“Make it twenty. Holmes is already on his way.”

The dial tone rings out and Q allows himself to flop back into bed with an irritated groan. 

“News?”

Q nods. “We have a phone number. And I have twenty minutes to get to HQ.”

“Want me to brew you some tea while you’re in the shower?” James offers, and it is so helpful and considerate that Q could kiss him. 

There is no reason not to, so he does. James is smiling into the kiss, whispering, “Thought you were on a timer,” against his lips as he draws back. 

Q sets a new record for shower-taking and dressing, gratefully accepts the travel mug a half-naked James hands him when he passes the kitchen, then doubles back from the hallway to tell James his presence is required as well before he forgets to in his hurry. 

“I’ll be there soon,” James promises and waves Q out of the flat. 

The entire scene is utterly domestic and Q simply cannot stop smiling. 

He is so buggered.

*~*~*

Sherlock watches John from behind the prototype umbrella, noting how his posture has become more and more rigid the longer they have been inside the headquarters of MI6. The military-like environment must be evoking some form of Pavlovian response from his nervous system, reverting back to his time in the army. The fact that he is handling a gun does not diminish that effect. 

The sight is far more intriguing than the object currently in front of him. Q Branch probably only builds them for Mycroft anyway, endeavouring to put them on the civil service’s good side. Unfortunately Q has denied Sherlock access to any other items currently in development, so they have to bide their time until the signal comes with the more boring projects. 

That, or in the cafeteria, though neither of them is particularly hungry, not even John, who is keyed up with adrenaline and radiating controlled strength. 

M had them sign half a dozen forms to ensure MI6 cannot be held accountable for anything that happens on tonight’s mission, yet Sherlock doubts anyone will come to harm with John in the field. Alright, maybe 007 might have some reasonable skill to contribute as well – he must be exceptional at his job if Mycroft requested him out of the fourteen Double-ohs. 

Q approaches with a sleek gun case. “It’s finished. We should probably move this to the range.”

Sherlock tags along, mostly because he has never actually seen John fire a gun, though he might have imagined the scene. 

In action, John is even more imposing than Sherlock thought – his back straight, arm outstretched, the green light on the Walther confirming that his palm print has been accepted. John empties two magazines into the paper target. It might not be surgical precision but his marksmanship is still remarkable. 

“You sure you don’t want to take one with you?” John asks him, having accepted more ammunition from Q as well as a shoulder holster for underneath his jacket. 

“I doubt Mycroft would be in favour of having me enter that building armed.”

A dark shadow passes over John’s face and he winces as he remembers the last time Sherlock handled a weapon. They let the topic go. 

The plan is simple: Q has successfully located Semyon Somerton’s burner phone in an industrial complex owned by the Waters family. Bond is going to enter the building with John and Sherlock, SIS standing by for providing backup. Since they do not expect more than four or five people to be present inside, Sherlock was able to convince Mycroft and M to let him and John take point with the agent. 

Then all they have to do is locate Semyon and take him into custody, as well as all other criminals that turn up in their path. John has been allowed to fire his weapon in emergency situations, adding another layer of protection given that he does not need to worry about potential repercussions. Not that a minor detail such as that has stopped him in the past, Sherlock remembers fondly. 

They move out during dusk. Sherlock supposes it is to add some gravitas to the operation, since without the cover of approaching darkness the SIS would look rather conspicuous and amateurish. 

He says as much in the van, eliciting a snort from John. 

“Yeah, because you’d do so much better, obviously.”

“I would. I have,” Sherlock argues. John’s eyes narrow quizzically and Sherlock remembers that he has never actually told his flatmate about his time at MI6. 

“I was an active agent for several years,” he begins slowly, watching John’s reaction in case he needs to abort the tale. Not that there is much to tell. “I quit when I realised how some missions were rather dubious in nature.”

John takes a moment to process this before commenting, “World of spies and secrets not for you?” 

Sherlock lets out a breath he was not aware of holding. “No. I do prefer my shadows a little more righteous.”

Where other people would have been baffled and asked further questions, John seems to understand what Sherlock is saying on a deeper level without having to inquire. John would know a little about the work MI6 does, having been acquainted with 007 back in Afghanistan. Thus he would be aware of what narrow line between right and wrong operatives had to tread.

“And Mycroft just let you leave?”

A reply is at the tip of his tongue, yet Sherlock backtracks at the last moment. “He did not have much choice,” he says instead, in a tone that invites no further questions. 

He is even mostly telling the truth. John does not know about… that person who looked so much like the young Quartermaster. Apart from that, Sherlock would not even be able to explain correctly, since most of the necessary details have been locked away forever in the maze of his mind palace. 

The van stops and they exit together with Bond, who has been suspiciously quiet the entire ride, and meet Q outside several blocks from their target. 

“There are your earpieces. Do not lose them, do not drop them in glasses of champagne, do not feed them to imaginary reptilians.” Q levels a glare at 007 that fails its purpose, given how it’s mostly filled with fondness. 

“It was a Komodo Dragon and not my earpiece,” Bond insists. Q gives a snort. It seems to be an argument they have had multiple times. 

“Can we hear everyone?” John asks, prompting the Quartermaster to pull his gaze away from 007. _Interesting._

“No, except when I open the channel. I shall be overseeing all communications. The warehouse seems to be running a network of its own. If the Clowns are in fact connected to Moriarty, hacking that network will be the key to locating him. Scotland Yard is standing by to provide assistance if necessary.”

“Or what they call assistance,” Sherlock cannot help but add, relishing the laughter it draws from John. 

Q narrows his eyes. “This is a serious operation, Holmes, and the Metropolitan Police Force is doing excellent work based on the resources they have. Now,” he continues, ignoring Sherlock’s eyeroll, “take your positions and advance. I’ll be monitoring you from the surveillance van nine hundred meters away in a side street.”

John and Bond nod, stopping short of saluting Q. Sherlock starts walking off and the others fall into step behind him. 

“Did you really feed an earpiece to a Komodo Dragon?” John asks Bond, his voice lowered to a whisper. 

“It ate my gun. Q won’t believe me.”

“If you had told less colourful tales to justify the loss of equipment prior to that incident, he might have taken your word,” Sherlock feels compelled to point out. 

“It was my first mission under his command,” Bond shoots back, opening his mouth to continue, but John interrupts him. 

“Sorry mate. I met you and saw what mad bollocks you get up to, but even I wouldn’t have bought that excuse.”

Bond inhales and exhales forcefully, though otherwise remains quiet. 

They reach the house, an ugly brick building that might have been any shade of colour from red to grey to mint green in daylight. Now it simply looks dreary and glum. Three stories, each of which spanning about two hundred square meters, holding who knows what. 

According to the records it used to be a printing plant for a newspaper before the Waters family acquired it a year ago, though Sherlock is certain there is more to its history than this. 

They enter through a back entrance where Bond can show off his lock-picking skills. The two former soldiers have their guns drawn and their bodies cut sharp figures in the dimly lit hallway. The sun is setting and soon there will be darkness, yet they plan on being back at MI6 to debrief long before they would require torches. 

Sherlock stops abruptly, pointing to the ceiling when John and Bond attempt to speak. 

“Q, there are cameras,” Bond transmits, and the other man’s answering, “On it, stand by,” can be heard in all their ears. 

They stand by until Q’s voice sounds again. “The cameras cover the hallways as well as three other rooms, two on the second floor, one on the third. I cannot see anyone, but the cameras don’t cover the space well, so the targets might be hiding in the blind spots. Proceed with caution.”

“Understood,” both Bond and John acknowledge and the three of them continue on their way, letting Q guide them to the first door. To Sherlock he sounds distracted – presumably because he is using the camera feed’s signal to track where the images are being sent to. Maybe they will finally be one step ahead of Moriarty. 

John and Bond communicate non-verbally as if they have done it for years, not moving synchronously yet nearly so. John has his hand on the handle of the first door Q mentioned, ready to push it down and open it with Bond poised for attack, when suddenly a shot rings out on the other side of the door. 

John and Bond exchange a quick glance, then John pushes the door open and James slips inside, Sherlock on his heels. 

He comes to a sudden halt as he takes in the sight in front of him. 

Mary is standing over the body of a man, one arm still outstretched and holding a gun.

*~*~*

Q blinks at the image that James’ tiepin camera transmits to his miniature control room. Mary Morstan being at the scene does not bode well for this mission – the timing is too perfect for it to be accidental. 

He shakes his head, refocusing most of his attention on the protocols he is in the midst of dismantling. 

The cameras in the building are transmitting their images somewhere, and Q would bet his Peter-Jackson-inspired motion tracking software that it will lead straight to Moriarty’s secret lair. Partly because he recognises the encryption – a variation of what was used on the hard disk, maybe coded by the same programmer. If that is true then Moriarty has a brilliant hacker up his sleeve who helped Semyon Somerton for some reason or other. 

They are running out of time, so Q once again activates the by now modified and improved Korean virus, borrows some cloud space and attacks the camera feed’s encryption with a combination of brute force and blatant skill. 

In moments like this he wishes he could publically boast about his accomplishments, because breaking Moriarty’s security in less than seven minutes (six minutes and fifty-seven seconds if one wants to be precise about it) would garner tremendous respect in the shadow networks of cyber space… 

Suddenly, a blur of movement on James’ screen draws Q’s attention. A _ping_ on another screen confirms the location he suspects Moriarty to watch the proceedings. 

They have him. They have James Moriarty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: the grand finale! I hope you enjoyed the chapter :)


	11. Loyal In Adversity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my MD sister for medical advice! The conversation went [like this](http://multifandom-madnesss.tumblr.com/post/117626730089/conversations-with-fic-writers%20), if anyone needs a laugh before the finale. 
> 
> A big THANK YOU to [Iriya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iriya/pseuds/Iriya) for the wonderful beta job! 
> 
> Alternative title: “Enter The Garridebs”. This chapter also comes with a **warning for minor and original character death**.  
>  This was incredibly hard to write, though I hope you like the end result as much as I do. Hold onto something…

Sherlock is the first to move, two quick strides place him diagonally in front of John and James. 

Mary turns, directing the barrel of her weapon at him. She is clad in black, wearing the same cap as that night in CAM tower. The sense of déjà vu makes Sherlock’s skin crawl. 

“I swear, Sherlock, if you take one more step, I really _will_ kill you.”

The ‘this time’ goes unsaid. Sherlock swallows, resisting the temptation of flinging himself at the woman and taking her down with his bare hands. 

To his left, John is tightening the grip on his gun. “You,” is all he says, his voice an indecipherable mess of confusion, hurt, disappointment and stone-cold fury. 

“Me,” Mary echoes, meeting her husband’s eyes for the first time. This seems to jolt John out of his stupor. 

“Where’s Beth?” he demands, and Mary confirms Sherlock’s worst suspicions when her blank mask briefly gives way to something softer, something almost caring. 

“I left her with you, John. I’d never take her from you.”

“ _Liar_ ,” John growls, adjusting his grip on the gun and shifting his weight. 

“He took her. The night I left.” Her eyes dart towards the corpse on the floor. Sherlock needs a moment but he manages to identify him as Arthur Somerton, leader of the Clown Gang. 

“Why?” John voices the question racing through Sherlock’s mind where no drawer or shelf holds any clue as to the answer. 

Mary tilts her head briefly, considering Sherlock with hard eyes. Her lips curl into a sneer. “You haven’t figured it out?”

“ _Where is my daughter?_ ” John cuts in before Sherlock has time to efficiently analyse the statement only to feel his stomach drop when Mary actually averts her eyes. 

“He killed her.” 

The information makes John jerk back and his jaw drop. Sherlock is torn between the wish to comfort him, check that Mary is telling the truth, and emptying the magazine of a gun into her torso. 

“You’re lying,” John insists in a whisper, a vein in his jaw clenching. 

Mary addresses Bond for the first time then. “Go and see for yourselves. Third floor, last door on the left.” 

John nods at the agent before Sherlock can point out how this is likely to be a trap, yet James Bond is probably acutely aware of the possibility and will adjust accordingly. The door falls shut behind the Double-oh with a _click_. 

“Why?” John repeats, taking a step towards Mary who takes one back, never shifting her aim away from Sherlock. John glances at him and stops his advance. 

This time Mary not only sneers but smirks, her eyes filling with mirth as she considers Sherlock. 

“You really haven’t figured it out yet? The connection?”

His mind has been working ever since he saw her, yet the why of how she would be here still eludes him. Moriarty will have had a hand in this, but why send his best sniper into a house full of thugs? 

“Oh, Sherlock,” she sighs in a despicable patronising fashion that makes Sherlock’s blood boil. “You had all the clues. You even flew to Minsk.”

_Minsk?_

Statistics, bits and pieces of news, rumours flicker past Sherlock’s mental eye until he recalls a comment on his blog, months and months ago, from a man pleading with him to prove his innocence. 

“Berry Berwick,” he murmurs, repeating the name louder when John’s gaze turns quizzical. “Woke up after allegedly killing his girlfriend. His story was too absurd to be of any substance… But…” Sherlock’s eyes snap to Mary whose face morphs back into her blank mask. She knows he knows. 

“But what? Can someone please tell me _what the bloody hell is going on!_ ” John shouts, deep and angry and confused, the onset of desperation colouring his tone. 

“AGRA,” Sherlock states. 

“Yes, _not_ her initials,” John bites out, causing both Sherlock and Mary to raise an eyebrow each. “I read it. I asked Mycroft to check the information. The CIA never had a woman on any of those jobs you name on the flash drive, if it was a mission at all.”

“You asked Mycroft?” Sherlock scoffs. “Why would you do that?”

“’Cos he’s got no reason to lie to me,” John snaps, throwing Sherlock for a loop. Why would John think he would lie?

“I couldn’t tell you the truth, John. You never would have looked at me again,” Mary says without remorse. 

“That wasn’t your decision to make!”

“No, it was Moriarty’s,” Sherlock fills in, just in case Mary wants to conceal this particular fact once again. 

John’s head whips around so fast Sherlock almost worries about dangers of whiplash. “What?”

Mary’s face closes off within moments. Sherlock takes a deep breath before he begins. “A sniper with surgical precision, John. It was Mary who helped Moriarty fake his death. Tell me, Mary – was David really your ex or was he just your cover for when you came to England from Belarus?”

“Hang on,” John stops any explanation on Mary’s part in its tracks. “What are you saying, Sherlock?”

“I’m saying that Mary did not go rogue after she left the CIA, John. She started working for Moriarty. And she never stopped.”

A humourless laugh bubbles up in John’s chest, escaping in broken pieces, his body twisting in resistance to the truth until he has regained control once more, his gun hand unwavering and still aimed at his wife. 

“It was all fake, then, wasn’t it? And _you_ ,” he growls, turning his head to glare at Sherlock who grows cold all over from the thunder emanating from John’s eyes. “How long’ve you known?”

“Uh –”

“You didn’t think I had a right to know? Christ, Sherlock, my own _wife_! And you just…” He trails off before he can finish the sentence, then squares his shoulders. “What’s AGRA, then? Come on. Dazzle me, Sherlock.”

Put on the spot like this, delivering his latest epiphany does not give him any satisfaction. 

“AGRA was the code name of a secret governmental research project into psychedelic drugs in Belarus in the late 1980s. They were developing something to cause short-term memory loss. The lab and all research were destroyed by the CIA, but that was just the official version. That same day, Berry Berwick was found with the murder weapon next to his dead girlfriend. I assume that was you, Mary – you faked your death by using the exact same drug you were supposed to procure for your superiors at the CIA, faked your death and became Mary Morstan, Moriarty’s most skilled sharpshooter.”

John takes a few seconds to digest this before probing, “Why? Why choose Moriarty over the CIA?” 

“They were going to terminate her, along with the AGRA project. No loose ends,” Sherlock explains and Mary nods. 

Another humourless laugh, another aborted full body movement. “Was any of it real?” John’s eyes are pleading, and Sherlock has to look away from the sheer intensity of emotion. 

“Yes.” Mary’s reply is barely audible. “But you never loved me as much as I did you. I never had all of you, did I?”

No silence has ever been louder than the ensuing one. Sherlock’s mind uses the reprieve to draw another connection. 

“Arthur Somerton,” he says slowly, “he was related to Berwick, wasn’t he? Moriarty told him after they broke out of prison that he knew who killed his brother. But you fled the same night they came for you – they took Beth, not you. They took Beth to get to you.”

A strangled, pained sound that is more animalistic than human comes from John and if Sherlock dared glance at him, he would surely see every fibre of John’s being on fire with emotion. He does not look for he fears the sight would break him. He presses on, instead. 

“And tonight Moriarty somehow knew we would be here, which is why he told you to come.”

Another nod from Mary. “Arthur killed Beth, so I shot him.”

“No,” John insists. “She’s not dead.”

Mary negates with her head, yet does not apologise for the hurt her actions are causing John. Sherlock wants to shake her, scream at her, ask her how she can do that to a man like John, how she could just throw away the relationship they had instead of cherishing it, instead of holding on and never letting go. 

Sherlock takes a step in her direction. She tenses immediately, her finger hovering over the trigger. 

“I swear, Sherlock, I will shoot.”

“Moriarty does not want me dead. You know better than to make him angry.”

The corners of her mouth twitch. “It doesn’t matter. You don’t leave his service, you don’t just escape and live.”

“One last act of rebellion?” Sherlock wonders, trying to ignore the way his pulse is spiking. One twitch of Mary’s finger and it would all be over. She will not miss this time. 

“Mary.” John sounds wrecked even though his poise has yet to change. “I can’t let you do that.”

Sherlock would have doubted it was possible, but Mary’s expression hardens even further and the subtle shifting of her weight from one foot to the other transmits her intentions louder than any verbalisation ever could. 

Sherlock does not have time to react before the shots ring out. His mind fills in what happened in the three frozen, breathless seconds after the fact, when Mary is already on the ground and John is losing his balance and clutching his thigh.

John shot first, burying the bullet between Mary’s eyes just as she was pulling the trigger. The shot went wide, missing its intended target and penetrated John instead. 

_Blood._ All Sherlock can see is _blood_ , his ears filling with pained grunts and why is the wound still bleeding, _this cannot be happening_ – 

But it is. John’s eyes are drooping as more and more of the crimson liquid leaves his body and Sherlock _just can’t think_.

*~*~*

James leaves the triad behind, though instead of going straight for the main stairs he asks Q for an alternative route, following his directions to a smaller staircase at the other end of the hallway. 

“007, the probability of this turning out to be a trap is at least eighty-five per cent,” the younger man feels obliged to inform him. 

“You don’t say,” James mutters in reply. 

“How are you still alive?” Q hisses but James is already where Morstan said Watson’s kid was to be found. 

“Do you have eyes inside the room?” 

“Yes, but the camera is facing an empty corner, so that won’t be of much help.”

“I’m going in.”

“007 –” 

James ignores his protests and barges into the room, prepared to shoot at anything that moves. Nothing does and he approaches the bundle lying on the floor near the wall on his right. The room is empty safe for a few scraps of metal and piles of paper, yellowed with age. 

“Oh no.” 

Q’s reaction echoes over the com before James can fully process what the lack of motion means. It takes him a split second before he remembers his tie pin transmitting a continuous video of what is in front of him to the Quartermaster, no matter how chilling the image. 

James knows the result before he bows down to search for a pulse, finding none. 

Then – the creak of a door. James has turned on his knee and is aiming his Walther before the intruder is even fully inside the room. 

“Please don’t shoot!” Semyon Somerton begs, his voice high and panicked with the slightest hint of an accent. “I have information! Your government will want me alive!” 

“Step forward, hands behind your head,” James orders as he rises to his feet. “Who killed the child?” 

“Not me!” he pants frantically, “Not me! My father, it was him, he’s mad and ruthless and he’s in league with –”

 _Moriarty_ , yet Semyon never speaks his name. Glass shatters and the familiar sound of a projectile flying past James’ ear makes him drop to the floor, shielding the bundle instinctively even though it comes too late. 

James swears he can hear Q gasp his name, his first name, but it has to be his imagination, running wild in the face of death. 

There is no second shot, however. He lifts his head and spies Semyon gurgling out his last breath. He whirls around and catches the tail of a coat in the edge of the shattered window near the high ceiling – a sniper. Certainly one of Moriarty’s. 

James is in pursuit before Q has time to enquire if he is fine and he has almost reached the door leading onto the factory roof when Q orders him to abort. 

“Get back to Holmes and Watson asap, Watson was shot and needs assistance,” the man barks into the line. James’ feet have reacted as soon as the last syllable of “007, abort!” was out of his mouth. 

He barrels down the stairs, adrenaline increasing his speed and he pushes open the door with more power than strictly necessary. 

Blood is the first thing that registers. _So much blood._

John is on the floor, if not yet unconscious very much nearly there, while Holmes is gripping his arm and unwounded thigh, pale as a ghost and on his way to hyperventilating. 

“Move!” James barks at him, but that only serves to make the detective shuffle closer to the doctor. 

In that moment James sees it all, every layer of emotion, every facet of Sherlock’s soul laid bare and exposed like a raw nerve. He sees it in his eyes, in his whitened knuckles, in the lack of distance between his body and John’s. 

Sherlock is vulnerable and fragile and so _in love_ it hurts to look at. 

James catches himself and slides to his knees, taking hold of Sherlock’s shoulders. “Listen to me, Holmes – I know what I’m doing. He’ll be fine, you _know_ that, damn it!”

For one breathless moment James thinks his words did not register, but then Sherlock shuffles back, still on his knees, and grants him room to manoeuvre. James removes his jacket and presses it against the wound with all the power his body can provide. 

“Q –”

“Medevac will be there in ninety seconds.”

“Good.”

It looks worse than it actually is – the bullet apparently ruptured the GSV, the great saphenous vein in the thigh. It bleeds like a stuck pig, sure, and it’s going to land Watson in hospital alright, but other than the blood loss he is going to be fine. 

The medical officers appear ninety-three seconds after Q’s announcement and immediately take over for James. Sherlock is still frozen, his eyes glued to John’s face, so James carefully pulls him back in order to let the medicals do their jobs. 

“Where are you taking him?” he asks the person closest to him, a young, tough looking woman with short, red hair. 

“Moorfields Eye Hospital, for now,” she says and then they are pulling John onto a stretcher. 

“Q –”

“There’ll be a car outside for you and Sherlock,” comes the immediate reply. 

“What about –”

“Already in our hands. Both of them will be transported to the pathology at MI6. You are free to accompany Holmes to the hospital.”

He nods even though Q will hardly be able to see and makes to pull Sherlock along, who is staring at the floor, silent and unmoving, maybe in shock, when James remembers something. 

“What about Moriarty?”

Q lets out an audible breath on the other end of the line. “New Scotland Yard has just taken him into custody.”

“You’re worth your money after all, Q. 007 out.”

He hears an unusual sound before the connection is cut – something like a bitter chuckle bordering on hysterical – yet cannot contemplate its meaning for Sherlock is starting to hyperventilate again and James wonders when for God’s sake he morphed from blunt instrument to nanny.

*~*~*

Moriarty honestly is in NSY custody – Q saw it happening. Detective Inspector Lestrade was the first on the scene, literally kicking in the door and shouting something at Moriarty whom Q was watching through the man’s own web camera. 

He will never in his life forget the look of utter surprise on the criminal’s face. Or how his stomach plummeted when the implications unfolded. 

Moriarty did not want to get caught, not like last time, and in this case no one would believe a not guilty verdict. Yet this is James Moriarty, smartest criminal mastermind of the century – surely he would have a contingency plan for the event of a surprise capture, wouldn’t he? 

Lestrade hands the cuffed man over to his officers and Q traces his progress from the basement of a school to the police vehicle and with it through London. Q is holding his breath in tense anticipation. Moriarty must have a plan to escape – he simply must. 

A terrifying thought dawns on Q just as the car takes a corner: what if a plan is in place but fails? What if the surprise and outrage as the handcuffs closed around Moriarty’s wrists was genuine, and Q had never been meant to hack that video feed? 

Then Moriarty’s men will act. Sherlock will die and Moriarty will expose Mycroft in revenge for letting Moriarty get arrested. A criminal of his calibre will have documents that can serve as incriminating evidence and ensure Mycroft’s incarceration for treason. Moriarty will have won and the country’s most brilliant minds will either be dead or incarcerated. 

And only Q can prevent that from happening. 

Eerie calm floods him as he reaches a decision, quickening his fingers as they fly over the keyboard. He hacks the TfL easily, one eye on the feed tracking the police van. He is going to delete every trace of his involvement later; whoever is going to investigate the accident will find nothing to tie anyone to the glitch. 

It works perfectly, the lights switching at the crossroads half a minute later than automated to. The man in the flashy German sports car presses his accelerator to the floor and darts across the square. The police van rams into him in a perfect ninety-degree angle, pushing the vehicle for several metres until another car careens into the van from the side, tipping it over. 

Q activates his coms and informs emergency services, his voice shaking as he keeps his eyes fixed on the traffic feeds, infusing it with enough worry that no one will ever suspect him. 

The policemen that exit the damaged police car before Moriarty drop to the ground like toy soldiers. Q would bet anything the invisible sniper is none other than Sebastian Moran, but he is too skilled to end up caught on CCTV footage. 

Moriarty walks away from the wreck with a split lip and a thin trail of blood trickling down his temple, straightening his suit and grinning at no one in particular. 

Q breathes hard. Stares at his hands. 

Loyal in adversity. 

Mycroft is safe. The game will go on. 

 

**END OF PART I**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew… I am so proud that this is completed! I hope you enjoyed it. Please don’t hesitate to comment, since feedback is the only reward I get apart from private satisfaction. 
> 
> **There will be a part II.** I have outlined the plot, but my Muse is currently occupied with the sequel to my ColdFlash fic, so I can’t give you an estimate as to when part II of Bondlock will be on the horizon.
> 
>  **EXCITING NEWS!** My next short film "The Hacker" is based on this fic! So if you're interested in that you can check out our [campaign page on Indiegogo](https://igg.me/at/thehacker). Seriously folks, it’s very fandom-y =) 
> 
> PS: The Hacker also has a tumblr! You can find us at [bondlocked.tumblr.com](http://bondlocked.tumblr.com/).


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